


Make Me Such A Fool (only for you)

by TiniBopper, Wren Truesong (waywren)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (we edit the older chapters for consistency), Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Donna Noble, Canon-typical levels of poor decision-making, Cat Puns, Dr Nyarlathotep, Episode AU: s03e08-09 Human Nature/Family of Blood, Episode: s03e08-09 Human Nature/Family of Blood, F/M, Flashbacks, John is a He/Him Disaster Lesbian, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication is Worst Trope, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Referenced Time War (Doctor Who), References to Audio 01.03: Death and the Queen, References to Shakespeare, Slow Burn, The Doctor (Doctor Who) Uses They/Them Pronouns, Time War Angst (Doctor Who), no shared cover story, they don't start out married, we kin Donna in this house, we wrote it anyway, welcome to our fic where the characterization is good but the episode order doesn't matter, well a slower burn than Donna's was in any case, yet another Donna Noble in Human Nature fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 84,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24706549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiniBopper/pseuds/TiniBopper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywren/pseuds/Wren%20Truesong
Summary: One moment they were shopping, the next the Doctor was screaming, and the moment after that they're in 1913 and Donna is more alone than she's been in over a year.  And all the Doctor's video said was, 'Improvise.'Hell with it. Farringham School needs a good secretary.(A Donna Noble in Human Nature story, but a little bit different.)
Relationships: Donna Noble & Joan Redfern, Donna Noble/John Smith, Tenth Doctor/Donna Noble
Comments: 294
Kudos: 165





	1. may i be so converted and see with these eyes?

**Author's Note:**

> When two fanbeings love a ship and a fantrope very much, weird things happen. With thanks to the [so you aren't as human as you thought you were](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208397/chapters/35273690) discord for letting us rp the first inspiration for this in their off-topic channel without throwing us off the server.
> 
> Important timeline notes: We moved some episodes around. Season 3 was completely unchanged EXCEPT Martha didn't have to put up with the Doctor in 1913. Season 4 is mostly the same, except the Library hasn't happened yet; we go from "Unicorn and the Wasp" to "Midnight" to this.
> 
> (Wren gets to have the credit of posting all the chapters. <3 Tini)
> 
> ETA: We're introducing hovertext! Thanks to Tini's incredible industry and Wren doing one chapter right at the end, hovering your mouse over zalgotext or pictures-of-text should give you a little xkcd style popup with the translation. Hope that helps a bit. The end notes of each chapter will also always have the lot.

There were a few sounds that she had always felt were the worst sounds to hear.

Nails grating on a chalkboard was a stereotypical one that got brought up a lot, but it wasn’t one that happened all that _often_ unless one was saddled with a particularly malicious teacher. Shattering glass and the sound of someone quietly saying “oops,” was high on the list, if only because she had heard that one far more often. She’d also had a very strong personal dislike for the sound of wobbling plastic for… a _while_ , if she was being honest. But this was a sound that Donna had never expected to shoot straight to the top of her ‘worst sounds’ list.

The Doctor was screaming.

Not just yelling; she’d heard them raise their voice before, heard them get angry, heard them bellow. That was an entirely different and more than acceptable sound to their voice, one that she’d even tried to provoke a few times for the lark of it. This, however… This was entirely different.

The Doctor was _screaming_.

It wormed its way into her ears, even down two hallways where she had dashed to her room on the TARDIS, resonated through her bones and made her grit her teeth. She tried to slow the shaking of her hands but the adrenaline refused to abate, and that _scream_ was doing nothing to help it. She’d been fumbling with idle tasks, trying to calm herself from the extremely close call, trying to get ready for the task to come, whatever it might be -- the Doctor had sent her off so that they could get preparations in place, and had warned her that she would know when they were done, and she had _no idea_ what they meant by that but that was twenty minutes ago.

And now they were screaming. And she had a terrible, slow mounting feeling of horror that she now understood what they meant.

“Doctor?” She called out of the door of her room, dashing down the hallways and to the control room, knuckles going white around the doorframe when she saw them strapped into a monstrosity of wires and metal, thrashing like they were being electrocuted and screaming like they were being _tortured_. She was fairly sure they’d sent her off so that they could do-- whatever _this_ was without her arguing with them over it. The TARDIS lurching from the time vortex made her even more glad that she had a hold on the door, since it nearly sent her to the floor. “Doctor-- wait, you still haven’t explained--!”

And they still wouldn’t be, it seemed, because the jolt of landing ripped the crazy mad scientist mating of a brainwashing machine and a three-legged spider out of the Time Lord’s hands and off of their head, sending them crashing to the grating, dead to the world.

At least the screaming had stopped.

Donna hurried over to check them, scrambling to get two fingers to their pulse point and unaccountably relieved when she felt the steady beat under their skin. But within a few heartbeats, she snatched her hand back -- there wasn’t the familiar echoing pulse. She pushed her hand against it again, thinking maybe she was losing it, but nope, just a steady th-thump, th-thump, not the fluttery th-thu-th-thump that she’d gotten so used to. She even took a few seconds to press her hand over the right side of their chest, and there was _nothing_ , no second heart -- it was almost like--

“Is this thing on?” asked the Doctor--wait, no, that was the scanner, and a harried-looking Spaceman tapping the screen. She shoved to her feet and scrambled over to the console to grip at it. “Donna, here’s a list of instructions for when I’m human. No, don’t interrupt, you can yell at me when we get out of this.” She let out a faint whining sound, out of her depth and confused and _what had they done? What was going on?_ “Those creatures with the green guns, they were hunters. They can sniff out anyone, and they’re going to want to eat me in particular, ‘cos I’m unique. They can chase us all over time and space unless I go to ground and change completely. That’s where you come in.” 

They ran a hand through their hair, spiking it to further heights of hedgehog ridiculousness. “See, the reason they’re hunting us--well, me, they don’t have the taste to know you’re brilliant and you should really be glad about that--is the same reason this will work. They’ve got a limited lifespan that they can extend by, well.” They grimaced. “Eating me. So I’ve got to stop being a Time Lord and we’ll wait them out, since, lucky us, they didn’t see either of our faces. Shouldn’t take too long, really, and then we’ll be back to it, business as usual. 

“So!” They held up a round silvery object she belatedly realized was a fob watch, and she noticed that said watch had also clattered to the ground just under the screen, beside where their comatose body (their _human_ body, oh God, _what had they done--_ ) was sprawled on the floor. “This watch, Donna, this watch is me. Will be me. The Chameleon Arch will rewrite my biology. Literally changes every cell in my body. All the memories, all the Time Lord bits, they’ll go into this. Look after it--please.” 

Immediately, she scrambled to pick it up, pulling it close to her heart and trembling.

“Now, the TARDIS will take care of everything, invent a life story for me, find me a setting and integrate me. Can’t do the same for you, you’ll just have to improvise. I should have just enough residual awareness to let you in. Just maybe don’t slap me too much.” They smiled crookedly. “Save it for when I’ll know why you’re doing it.

“Where was I? Right, yes. 

“One: Don’t let me hurt anyone. You know what humans are like, I’ll see injustice or people being idiots and get all het up or stupid and we can’t have that.

“Two: Don’t worry about the TARDIS. She’ll go on emergency power so they can’t detect her, just let her hide away. 

“Four--” They stopped short. “No, wait a minute, three. No getting involved in big historical events.

“Real four: You.” The manic babbling stopped short, leaving them with a startlingly soft expression. “Don’t let me abandon you.”

Donna got to enjoy the odd little rush of warm and fuzzy feelings for an entire three seconds before they snapped back into Deathly Serious mode. “And Five! Very important, five, don’t let me eat pears. I _hate. **Pears.**_ John Smith is a character I made up, but I won’t know that. I’ll think I _am_ him, and he might do something stupid like eat a pear. When this is over, I don’t want to wake up from being human and taste _that._ ”

“See if I don’t _make_ you eat one, Spaceman!” she griped, clinging to the screen. “What-- what even _is_ this? Why did you have enough time to make a _bloody instructional video_ but not enough time to _bloody warn me_?!”

“Six. Try not to let me do stupid things. I already did the stupid thing, that one’s not your fault, but I had to do this while you were distracted because I knew you wouldn’t let me. But that one’s done for our own safety. John Smith will be all squishy and frail and probably a moron, but the TARDIS will make sure he listens to you.

”Seven. Don’t let me run for political office. Politics are almost as bad as pears, and you know me, I’m a meddling busybody with a gob. I’ll foment a revolution or something and then we’re violating Rule Three.

“H, I mean eight. Don’t let me invent anything.” They grimaced at the camera. “I know, I know, comes under Rule Three, but that one’s important. I’ll want to improve people’s lot by giving them Jelly Babies far too early.

“Nine. _Keep me away from philosophers._ And theologians. And physicists. Honestly, just--just keep me away from speculations on the nature of the universe, it’ll be a bad scene. Throw a book of Shakespeare at my head or get me babbling about nature, that should be fine.”

“Ten, right, what else, I’m missing something, I _know_ I’m missing something…” They gripped at their hair with both hands, squashing the hedgehog flat. “Of course, I’m an idiot! If you see anything mysterious or supernatural or alien-y, keep away from it, and do your best to distract me. The time the TARDIS is picking _should_ be safe, and if it isn’t, one of the other mes probably handled it. Your job isn’t to fix anything. I’m asking enough of you already.

“Eleven. While I’m asking things of you, can you, er…” At this point Spaceman looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Don’t hit John Smith for this, he won’t know why, but--it’s just we’ll be trying to lay low, right? And all the things that make you brilliant kind of make you stand out, and--” They shook themselves, looking as appalled as a cat that’s just stepped in perfume. “What am I _saying?_ Of course you won’t let an injustice stand. Just, be subtle? Generalissimo Hortense was a gift to the entirety of Eastern Europe, but she was a _big_ change. Try to keep to smaller injustices.” They shook a finger at the screen, mock-scolding. “If I don’t get to start any revolutions, neither do _you_.”

“Aww, you’re no fun at _all_.” The longer the video went on, the more Donna felt like she needed to sit down. She wasn’t sure if it was the subject matter or the fact that the Doctor knew her so well. They still hadn’t really explained _what_ she was supposed to do -- just, what was it, improvise? If they thought she could improvise with any sense of competence while also having to curtail her personality then they were mad as a hatter, so it was probably a good thing that that sounded like a retraction, at least. “Do you at least have a solid _when_ for me?”

“Twelve. I don’t know when or where we’re going to set down, the TARDIS is handling that for maximum randomising. Sorry about the landing. And the screaming, did I apologize for the screaming? Anyway, twelve. Like I said, the TARDIS will find a place for John Smith. Do your best to look after him until she indicates this is over, please? He shouldn’t need things smoothed over, but there’s no way to tell for sure and you’re the emergency guardian. So please, try to stay close.

“Which, er, makes for thirteen.” They gave the camera a hangdog look. “No matter how annoying I am, please don’t leave me. If you find a partner, at least wait to go off with them until I can be me properly and vet them? No man is good enough for my Donna. Welllllll, that’s a bit gender essentialist, but _you_ get me. I’ll vet them just as sternly regardless _but my point is_ I’ll be kind of depending on you and I’ll owe you so much shopping, the TARDIS has me on video right now and won’t let me fob you off, so please don’t leave me hanging?”

Donna immediately placed her hand on the console and felt the supportive thrum of the TARDIS like a vibration against her skin, even though nothing actually physically moved as best as she could tell. “You are going to help me _drag them_ to every bazaar in a three galaxy radius for this, aren’t you love?” she murmured shakily.

The TARDIS made it clear that spoiling Donna rotten was _absolutely_ on the agenda.

Video Doctor heaved a sigh. She wanted to pretend for just a second that it was because they _knew._ They knew her well enough, they had to know what she would be thinking with regards to _that._

“Fourteen, while I’m at it. I know I’m bad enough when I’m thinking properly, and I’m asking a lot of you, so this is a big one. Bigger than pears.” They brushed their fingers against the screen, and Donna knew that if this was an ordinary conversation they’d have squeezed her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. 

“Don’t let me hurt _you_ ,” they said, gentle but firm. “John Smith shouldn’t be a bad guy, but I’ve lived long enough to know that ‘Shouldn’t’ is about as solid as dandelion clocks in a hurricane. Protect yourself while I can’t, yeah? Even from me.”

“Deck you at the first excusable opportunity.” She nodded toward the screen, putting her chin in her hand with a dry, exasperated, almost indulgent smile. She was going to make them regret giving her permission. “Gotcha.”

They huffed gently. “Try not to break him entirely.” ( _No promises, Spaceman._ ) “Okay, what else...” A snap of fingers. “Fifteen! Pay attention to this one, all right? Remember to look after _you,_ too. You can’t serve from an empty vessel. Don’t go denying yourself good things in this, it’s going to be a stressful time, I know that.

“Which actually leads pretty well into sixteen: You’ll have some seed money, but more importantly, you’ll have the psychic paper. _Use_ it. I don’t have to tell you to be sensible, but there’s no call to go making things harder for yourself. References, a CV, letters of introduction, the possibilities are endless. As long as you don’t start speculating or gaming systems or anything, remember the no revolutions or upheavals thing.” They winked. “Giving yourself an excuse to be snooty’s fine.”

“Snooty’s only fun for the first bit of being snooty,” Donna sighed, “But I appreciate it.”

“And for _that_ matter, seventeen!” Now they were shaking their finger at the screen again, the idiot. “Even if you don’t go the snooty route, don’t let anyone run you down or tell you you aren’t brilliant. And that includes _you._ John Smith might not have the sense to disarm your jerkbrain for you, and I don’t want to wake up and find you’ve backslid into listening to the Sylvia in your head because there wasn’t anyone to remind you you’re amazing. I will be _very put out._ ”

“Oi, I’m not--” Donna started, pushing up on her hands again in aggravated denial, before realizing exactly what she was doing. Oh, that… that was pretty much the pot calling the kettle black, there, wasn’t it? They’d _just_ told her not to do that. The prawn. Knowing her so well that even _unconscious_ they could-- how did they put it? Disarm her jerkbrain?

If this went on much longer then the unconscious part might be in question, though, so she shook her head and refocused, with the TARDIS helpfully rewinding back over the bits she’d missed in her annoyance.

“Done telling me off yet?” the video smirked. 

“Prick.” She sighed. “Right, fine, get on with it.”

“Eighteen, and I’m probably worrying too much, make sure to make some friends. You’ll need support, and you’re a very social person, and that’s wonderful. Don’t stifle that. Besides, they might help you keep an eye on me. We’ve been travelling together long enough that I like to think I do a pretty good job of supporting you but I’m not going to be me, now am I?”

The teasing smile dropped away. “...because, well. Nineteen: It’s gonna be lonely. The TARDIS and I will be putting you someplace entirely foreign--even if it turned out to be Chiswick, the past is a different country and you know it. The future, too. Bring some familiar things with you. Sneak into the TARDIS if it gets really bad. She can do some things even on emergency power, and she’ll always keep your secrets.”

“Twenty.” They started to fiddle with their tie. “This’ll sound like I’m repeating myself, but it’s more of a tip on hiding--the outsider always stands out most. Use all that Supertemp skill to make yourself part of that community. I learned this the hard way by being very bad at it. When I’m me again you can ask about the time I was exiled to Earth in the 1970s, Common Era.” The Doctor grimaced in reminiscence. “Or don’t, that’d be _just fine by me._ ”

“Twenty-one!” The tie was flung aside. “About the only thing I’m sure of is that John Smith will be a _dork_. That part should be familiar enough, you put up with me, right? He might not blend in so well as I hope. Take pity on him, please.” They huffed out a breath. “What else, what else… 

“Oh, twenty-two. Should’ve mentioned this earlier. Human me won’t be able to resist the TARDIS giving him mental nudges, so you shouldn’t have too many problems with him when he wakes up, and he shouldn’t until you’re ready. Just steer him out the door and leave him to it, he’ll know where to go and his things are already in place. Minor perception filter on wherever we show up, it won’t be precisely like an arrival for him. The TARDIS will give you luggage and things from the wardrobe, too, so don’t hold back on anything that might make your life easier if it’s period-appropriate.” They clicked their tongue, thoughtful.

“--and I really can’t think of anything else and I need to get cracking before you can get in here and stop me, so: Twenty-three.” They leaned forward, intense. “If anything goes wrong, if they _find_ us, Donna, then you know what to do. Open the watch. Everything I am is kept safe in there. There’s a perception filter on it so the human me won’t think anything of it. To him it’s just a watch. But don’t open it until you have to, because once it’s open, then I’ll be me again and the Family will be able to find me. It’s all down to you, Donna. Your choice.” The Doctor nodded firmly, started to get up, stopped short, and sat to give the camera one last gentle smile. “Oh, and… thank you.” 

The scanner turned itself off.

For a few long seconds, Donna was left looking at her own reflection in the fuzzy glass: eyebrows knit together in concern, clutching a fob watch to her chest, and forced to listen to the eerie quiet of the TARDIS around them both. It was spooky, realizing how many background noises thrummed throughout the TARDIS in usual operation; unnoticeable except for in their absence. The fact that her own heartbeat was the loudest thing in her ears left her feeling -- startlingly -- _alone_.

She forced herself to draw in a slow breath, tightening her hold on the fob watch and turning to peer down at the standing problem of the moment. Or, at least, the unconscious problem of the moment.

So.

She was saddled with an unconscious, human version of the Doctor, the two of them were being hunted, and she had no idea what lay outside of those doors but was expected to improvise her way into a slot undercover so they could both lay low. She was going to _deck_ them when they were themself again.

“Are you still awake enough to talk, love?” She asked, tilting her head upward toward the arcing high ceilings of the console room. “I’m… not happy with this, obviously, but I need some more info than what Spaceman garbled into that. Where are we? _When_ are we?”

Hoping and trusting the TARDIS to understand her even though she didn’t have the telepathic connection that the Doctor had with her, she glanced at the console screen again, and was relieved to see it flicker back on with a scrolling readout and a map of the area. She scanned the lines of the map with more interest at first. It zoomed out briefly to show her the greater area -- south Wales, apparently -- before zooming back in to focus on the major area they would be staying in, a small town off of a lake that she couldn’t pronounce, with rolling hillsides and a lot of farmland. The data underneath the map informed her that they’d landed at the beginning of September of 1913, with a brief list of notable events around the world around the time period.

Not that she needed the reminder for one of them. World War 1 was going to ignite in a little under a year, when that Austrian bloke got assassinated. She remembered enough of her history classes to remember that much.

At least they would be somewhere that spoke English, mostly, so even if the TARDIS had to shut down the translation filter she wouldn’t be completely screwed.

“Okay, 1913,” she said on another slow, calming exhale. At least now she had an idea of what she was going to be getting into. She glanced at the unconscious Ti-- the unconscious _human_ at her feet, and frowned. “Don’t think suits looked like that in 1913, did they?”

There was another soft sound-that-wasn’t-a-sound from around her, almost apologetic, and she felt her eyes be drawn around to the neatly folded stack of fabric resting on the console where some criss-crossing internal TARDIS timeline had conspired to put it where and when she needed it. She looked at it, and then back at the Doctor, and then upward.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be _kidding me_.”

There was no answer. She wasn’t sure if she wanted one. With an annoyed growl she strode over and snatched up the pile of fabric, unfolding each piece and taking stock of the damage; shirt, socks, garters (garters?), trousers, proper leather shoes, and a slightly frayed brown jacket of a heavy wool that buttoned at the front. Thankfully, _blessedly_ , no underwear. Apparently she was spared in that sense.

“You are going to owe me _so much shopping_ and _so many spa days_ you skinny, Martian streak of _nothing_ with the competence and sense and emotional depth of a _teaspoon!_ ” she snarled as she took the clothing over to the lump of uselessness sprawled on the floor. They couldn’t change themself before strapping themself into that-- that-- that _torture_ chamber? What was she, their mother?

She dragged them up into a sitting position with a faint grunt of exertion and started roughly unbuttoning their suit jacket, pulling their limp noodle arms out of it and then doing the same with the button up shirt underneath it. The layer under _that_ appeared to connect to their knickers, so she hoped that that was the layer she could avoid touching too much.

“So. Much. _Spoiling._ ” She snarled, pulling the new shirt on over it, and making a few abortive attempts towards the button on their trousers, each one being snatched back with a discomfited grimace. This was _extremely_ impolite, and the fact that she was expected to do this-- they were her best mate, for God’s sake, they were _just mates_ , and the Doctor was _unconscious_ and she was _stripping their skinny arse._

“You _don’t_ get to berate me for this.” she finally growled, sucking it up and undoing the button and zip on the pants. Wrestling them off was at least more of a chore than anything else, and she had the chance to get quite creative with her insults when she accidentally got them tangled on the Doctor’s trainers -- of _course_ she had forgotten to get those off first, of _course_ \-- but after several minutes of this she at least had the chance to relax about the possibility of them waking up to this. If they hadn’t woken up at her tugging on their leg hard enough to possibly dislocate something, then they weren’t going to wake up through this.

Shoes off, socks off, _ew, spaceman feet_ , god they owed her so much for this.

She unfolded the roll of soft silky fabric that she had recognized as a sockball, and snagged the elastic bands and hooks that she knew were sock garters, studiously ignoring the thin corded muscle of the Doctor's bare legs while she tugged the socks on. The material was slippery and soft and she added a garter as she tugged each sock tight up to the knee.

"I. Hate. Literally every moment of this," she mumbled, starting to bundle up the pant legs and snake them on over the skinny ankles and up. Her breathing got a little easier once she'd managed to button up the trousers with the shirt tucked neatly into them. At least they-- _he_ was decent now. The Doctor had used male pronouns for this, she'd have to get used to that sooner rather than later. 

She shoved their feet into the unfamiliar leather shoes and tried to shake off the feeling that it was just _wrong_ not to see them in trainers. "You'd better appreciate everything I do for you, Spaceman," she mumbled, pulling them up enough to tug the coat on over their shoulders. A thin strip of fabric fluttered out from the coat pocket and she scooped it up automatically, going still when she realized it was a tie.

She was going to have to tie their tie for them. It was one thing to straighten them out after they'd run from some disaster or other, it was something else entirely to actually do them up in the first place. 

The last time she'd tied someone's tie for them had been…

She tightened her hold on it, biting her lip, and sucked it up. The Doctor was not Lance. She knew that better than anyone.

And if her fingers were trembling then they weren't _there_ to be aware of it. 

At the end of it, she sat back and reviewed her work, and decided that it was good enough. He was dressed and decent and she hadn't molested her best mate unduly. Now to get him _out_ of here. 

The scanner blinked on. Video Spaceman was giving her that _stupid gentle grateful smile._ “Thank you.”

It blinked off, and for a moment Donna was sure that that was the TARDIS using the Doctor’s voice.

"You're lucky I love you, prawn." She murmured, bringing a hand up to scrub tension from her eyes. 

“Hello,” said a soft, friendly voice. Donna's eyes snapped down to find the Doctor--no, John Smith--smiling up at her, and she had a very bad moment before his next words sank in. “You’re a very lovely dream. That’s new.”

A dream. A lovely dream. He thought he was dreaming, she was still safe. "What's new about it?" She asked, mostly trying to just roll with the moment. 

“Usually my dreams are much more terrible,” he said matter-of-factly. “Beautiful, often, but not lovely. I think I’ll write this one down.” He frowned absently. “But I must beg your pardon, it wouldn’t do to be late to class.”

The stranger with her best friend’s face picked himself up off the floor, dusted his trousers, and looked around with admiration but without familiarity, which might have been the most alien thing of all. “You have a very lovely home. Thank you for your kind indulgence.” He offered his hand, as if to shake, and she took it--

\--and he bowed over it, smiling into her eyes, and kissed his thumb where it brushed over her knuckles. “If I dream of you again, do let me offer a tour of Farringham School,” he said lightly. “We can’t boast swaying mountains, but the grounds are quite lovely.”

Her heart stuttered. For a brief second she clenched her hand around his, but he didn't seem to register her shock at the entirely uncharacteristic gesture. All he did was let go, straighten, and smile again, that same slightly unfocused one from before. 

“But I really must be going. Now where is--” he looked around again, spotted the hatstand, and smiled. “Aha.” The usually empty stand had acquired a soft felt hat that looked vaguely like a fedora. Donna knew it wasn’t, but at the moment she really couldn’t care. He put it on, made her one last bow, and strode out the door, which closed itself neatly behind him.

For a moment, she could only stand there. Finally, though, she took a breath.

"Right then. He's sorted." She squared her shoulders. "My turn."


	2. (she) swears she never will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way that Donna views herself is very different from the way that she is viewed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to [Jeanniebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeanniebird) for a remark in her comment that crystallized an entire theme of the story! We took that image and RAN WITH IT. ♥

It was early in the morning on Thursday the 4th of September, 1913, when John Smith was turned out of the TARDIS to go and insert himself into his life at the Farringham School for Boys. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, and the air was crisp and cool with just the slightest bit of chill to it forewarning the ending of summer. His arrival would, as the Doctor had said, feel less like an arrival and more of a continuation, for of course he’d been there since the beginning of term a few days ago, and anyone who you asked would say the same.

He would not question or altogether remember being in a small, mostly abandoned barn about twenty minutes out of town, nor would he have much to say on why his comfortable brown shoes were mudstained for that morning’s classes.

It was midday when Donna Noble finally strode through the town of Farringham-on-Llangorse with a suitcase in one hand and a trunk trailing along behind her in the other, shoulders back and walking like a soldier charging the front lines.

She’d spent about an hour in the console room, asking the TARDIS to pull up videos on the era’s fashion, both _what_ to wear and _how_ to wear it, before even taking the chance of going to dig through the Wardrobe. The suitcase was what the TARDIS had provided outright, at least a few sets of clothing that would blend in perfectly well with the people around her, layers upon layers of soft, partially translucent fabric and corsetry that she was going to have to get used to.

The trunk had been what she herself had packed -- more variety of clothing, a few books of Shakespeare’s sonnets and plays, Oscar Wilde, John Donne. She wasn’t an _avid_ reader outside of the Bard himself but they had been on her bookcase with the stack of ‘to read’s for a while, and she didn’t know how long they would be here. She’d also had to be careful to pick books that had already been published by this time period, which had limited her options somewhat.

Other than the books and extra clothing, she had also tucked a soft, felted doll in amongst her things -- a delicate hand-sewn faerie that she had spotted on one of their shopping trips in the year past, with grass green skin and a goldenrod brown dress styled like leaves that were just turning from summer into fall. The wings protruding from its back were a brighter gold, with stitching along them in fiery orange to make them look like dragonfly wings. The felted tangle of threads on its head that made up its hair was a fiery crimson that contrasted in a lovely way against its green skin tone, and the eyes that were stitched large and glimmering onto its face were sky blue, over a tiny felted on point of a nose. It was terribly cute looking. Though she hadn’t bought it at the time, she’d expressed her appreciation of it when they first came across it, and the Doctor had later presented it to her in the TARDIS with a fond little grin.

She’d hesitated over taking it with her now, but they’d told her to take familiar things, and this was the most discreet one that she could bring while still being a comfort item.

The fob watch had been slipped onto a chain and dropped around her neck, and now rested underneath the collar of the blouse she’d changed into, out of sight but close to her heart. Wearing it made her feel like she _could_ keep it safe, as long as it was kept close, and also helped her feel a tiny bit less alone. A little less like she was charging headfirst into a disaster without any backup, because she faced down danger with the Doctor all the time anyway. They were with her, so she could do this.

It wasn’t really _her_ fault that her emotions were running so high that she probably scared the people who saw her. She had a _list_ of things that she knew had to get done _today_ and didn’t have time to waste. She had to get herself at the very least lodgings for the night if not a job, and even if she didn’t get a job _today_ she would have to do it _quickly_.

John Smith was stationed at the school. The TARDIS had told her that much, and so had he. So that was where Donna was going, too.

(There would be whispers throughout the town about the woman who strode through like a summer storm from the southern road out of town, but that wasn’t her concern.)

By the time she had pushed through the school gates, the morning classes were well underway, so she had an almost entirely uninterrupted trip to the headmaster’s office on the ground floor. She placed her bags down, squared her shoulders, told herself to get it done so that she could get through this roller coaster of a day and actually have a good and proper cry, and rapped smartly on the door three times with her knuckles.

\--

George Rocastle moved one stack of paper onto another so that he could reach a third stack, discovered that he had the wrong stack, moved the lot onto a chair so that he could reach the fourth stack, discovered that he _had_ meant the first stack of paper after all, and finally located the file on the new regulations for Latin examinations.

He reached for his pen--and found a stack of paper that he had been _quite_ certain had been on the other end of the desk, but no pen.

He restrained the curse with decades of habit, placed the file he needed on his own desk seat for safekeeping, and stood to hunt across his desk.

Really, he’d had far better peace and organization hunting Boer guerillas in the war. And been better with the paperwork, too. Where the devil had his discipline gone? Aha! The pen at last.

Rocastle sat down and reached for the file.

Which wasn’t there.

Hadn’t he--?

There was a brisk rap at the door. He hastily capped the pen and put it in his breast pocket, at least _that_ might stay put. “Enter.”

The door opened, and in stepped a red-headed woman just past the prime of her life. She had two pieces of luggage with her, and took the moment to let the door swing shut behind her as she took in the state of uncontrolled chaos in the room around him. There was a faintly disapproving look on her face.

“...I was going to ask whether or not you might have an opening for a secretary, but it seems the answer is quite apparent.” she drawled. “If I may, I’d like to offer my services for the position.”

On a less stressful day Rocastle might have taken umbrage at her condescending tone. On _this_ day, he knew perfectly well that he had lost his pen three times, had just realized he was sitting on the file he needed, and six days ago he had been late with the budget report to the Board of Governors.

The woman was neatly dressed, carried herself with a no-nonsense air which should prove a useful deterrent to the boys, and seemed to think she knew what she was doing.

He stood up.

“...Room, board, and one hundred pounds per annum.”

“What are the hours?” she shot back, arching an eyebrow. “Will I be expected to be working for much of my waking time? I’d like to be sure that you aren’t short-changing me, sir.”

Yes, she definitely knew what she was doing.

“9 A.M. through 5 P.M., Monday through Saturday, with luncheon and tea break at the usual hour. You are not expected to discipline or supervise the students, though you will have limited disciplinary authority. You will be expected to attend services with the faculty on Sunday mornings. Meals will be taken with the faculty in the refectory. Is that acceptable?”

In answer, she set down her suitcase and held out her hand. “Donna Noble.”

He shook it. A remarkably firm handshake for a woman, but in a school full of young terrors that was more of a good sign than a bad. He noted the lack of a ring. “George Rocastle, Headmaster. You’ll be rooming with Nurse Redfern, our house matron. The staff will take your things up while I introduce you.” He rang the bell.

A curly-haired maid opened the door in short order. At least the staff was reliable, far more than his filing. “Yes, sir?”

“Jenny, this is Miss Donna Noble, my new secretary. She’ll be rooming with Nurse Redfern. See to her things.”

Donna's shoulders stiffened and she looked over toward Jenny with an odd, slightly pained expression. It wasn't a lasting reaction, but a notable one.

“Of course, sir.” Jenny bobbed a curtsey and set about her task.

He turned back to the redhead. “If you’ll accompany me, Miss Noble.”

"Lead the way." She nodded, her smile tight, picking up her baggage again. There was a brief stutter of stillness, and she looked over at Jenny before seeming to realize herself, putting them down again and folding her hands into her skirts as though she didn't know what to do with them.

Not used to servants, Rocastle surmised. Well, that wasn't unusual for a gently raised spinster making her own way in the world. She'd adapt.

\--

Joan Redfern tucked the last bottle away in her medicine cabinet and checked her inventory. Yes, that was going as predicted, though she’d have to be certain to order more iodine and arnica. Sport was starting, and that meant cuts and bruises.

Well. She frowned. More than the usual fare as the pecking order was established.

A brisk rap at the door distracted her from her thoughts, and she glanced at the clock. Class was still in session, so it was either an urgent matter or a matter of administration. “Come in!”

“Ah, Nurse Redfern,” said Headmaster Rocastle, which answered that. He was closely followed by a redheaded woman about Joan’s age, sensibly attired in a secretary’s suit in shades of brown, with a single-breasted jacket, a cream blouse and an ankle-length skirt slightly more flowing than was fashionable. Joan, who despised hobble skirts, approved thoroughly. “Allow me to introduce Miss Donna Noble, my new secretary. She will be boarding with you starting today.”

Well, she’d miss having the rooms to herself, but having someone actually in _charge_ of the school’s administration would be a blessing that far outweighed it. Rocastle was an excellent headmaster, but he had no head for papers, and the last secretary hadn’t either, might she live in infamy. At least Joan hadn’t given in to the temptation of using the other wardrobe as storage space. Or, worse yet, the bed.

She offered her hand. “Joan Redfern. A pleasure to meet you.”

Miss Noble shook hands, smiling politely. "Pleasure’s mine.”

Was that a bit of strain around her eyes and the corners of her mouth? Well, perhaps the journey had been stressful. The trains were only so safe for a woman alone.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Rocastle. “Miss Noble, I shall expect you at nine tomorrow.”

“Right,” Miss Noble said. "I'll be there with time to spare."

“Well then,” said Joan as Rocastle took his leave. “Let me show you to our room while classes are still in session; there’s not much call for me just now.” She put up the ‘back in ten minutes’ card, locked the door in case of adventurous larks, and led the way.

“Breakfast is at seven, luncheon at noon, and tea at three, though I’m generally working through that looking after anyone who’s gotten hurt at weapons practise.”

"Weapons practice?" Miss Noble asked, glancing out of the corner of her eyes towards her. "The boys are being trained with weapons?"

“It’s an officer’s school as well as a prep school,” Joan said in carefully nonjudgemental tones. “His Majesty’s Army must have well-prepared officers.”

Miss Noble pressed her lips together and brought a hand up to fiddle at the chain around her neck. "I see. Wasn't aware of that."

Joan considered her a moment. Perhaps Miss Noble was as discontented with the military as she. But then, women of their age often were, even if they couldn’t let on. “I prescribe wax and cotton-wool. For your ears.”

"Doesn't matter if I can or can't _hear_ it if I know it's going to be happening _anyway_ \--"

“No,” Joan sighed. “But your ears might thank you, all the same.”

"My ears might." Miss Noble muttered darkly, clutching at whatever was on the chain around her neck. _My heart won't_ , she seemed to be thinking.

There was no safe answer to that, so Joan changed the subject. “--Supper is served at seven, and lights out for the boys at nine, though they often flout that. We haven't any sort of curfew ourselves, of course, but I’m generally in bed by then, the better to be rested if I’m needed in the night… We’re four flights up to be away from the boys and the gentlemen, but we do at least have our own washroom, complete with hot water. The plumbing’s very modern.”

Miss Noble hummed noncommittally at that, allowing the subject change, though she still looked rather miffed and like she would very much like to go on about being so.

“Ah, here’s our room.” Joan unlocked the door and led the way in. “Your bed is on the left, let me find your key, it should be on your desk, and this wardrobe is yours. The maids tend it every day, so that’s one less thing to worry about… ah, and here’s your things already.”

Jenny dropped into a curtsey at the sight of them, and Miss Noble gave a pinched smile toward her. There was something tense in and about her eyes, like she was under great strain and trying not to show it.

"Thank you, Jenny," she said politely.

“You’re very welcome, ma’am. Do you need me for anything?”

"No, thank you." Miss Noble said automatically.

“That’s all right, Jenny, I’ll look after her,” Joan said, peering behind the desk. She’d made the dratted woman put it in an envelope, and the maids wouldn’t have touched it--oh, of course, the drawer.

Jenny bobbed another curtsey and left. Miss Noble lost a visible amount of the tension in her eyes. Yes, definitely not used to servants; she’d likely lived in boarding-houses for much of her life, or on the sufferance of her male relations, and had no experience with this level of care or the amount of trust that could be given a good household.

“They’re all good girls,” Joan assured Miss Noble. “Here’s your key. I’m afraid the drawers don’t lock, but your trunk should do well enough for that.”

“Mm? Oh, yeah,” Miss Noble said distantly, pocketing the key and opening her suitcase. “Should be fine. Thanks.”

...yes, definitely exhausted, Joan thought, and determined not to show it. It would be best to allow her her dignity.

“The washroom’s through here, and the second shelf is yours. I’ll let you get settled, I should be getting back.”

“Thank you,” Miss Noble said again, without seeming to have actually heard what Joan had said. She extracted a cunning little fairy-doll from her bag and set it gently on her pillow, as tenderly as if it were her own child.

Joan paused at the door, and considered the tightness around Miss Noble’s eyes, and the way her knuckles had gone white when there was nothing to do with her hands but clasp them. “...There are only three keys to this door,” she offered casually, thinking of the scads of male teachers who roomed a floor below, to say nothing of the eldest boys. “Mrs. Windrush, the housekeeper, has the third alongside yours and mine. You can rest well.”

Joan let the door shut gently behind her, and made her way downstairs, head full of misgivings not so much about Miss Noble herself as what straits had brought her here.

\--

The fact that this day was barely half over was going to be the end of her.

The relative quiet of the room made her breath hitch almost automatically, made the tidal wave of emotions rise and threaten to engulf her, but she knew that if she broke down now she would be absolutely useless for the next few hours, and the chance was too high of someone coming in and finding her in that state during the daylight hours. Even if it was just the housekeeper Nurse Redfern had mentioned, Donna didn’t _want_ to run the chance of having her inevitable panic attack judged. She’d managed to get through well over a year without the Doctor finding out about her coping mechanism, bottling things away in the moment so that she could focus her way through the danger and necessary bits, to be let out once they had returned to the safety of the TARDIS and the privacy of her rooms. She didn’t want them thinking she couldn’t handle the stress -- she could, she was great at it, she just also knew she _needed that outlet afterward_.

Besides, she was very good at taking care of herself once she’d let it happen.

But it was still only just about lunch time here, so she had at least eight, probably nine or ten more hours before it would be anywhere near safe to let the stress have its way with her. She still had enough to do to keep her focus off of it -- unpacking, of course, would take up some of the time. She’d been awake for hours before they arrived here in the early morning, as well, so a midafternoon nap wouldn’t go unappreciated, just to get her through the rest of the day.

She leaned over her suitcase, tugging out the clothes that the TARDIS had provided for her before she had gone digging for her own picks to supplement. Each item was sorted by type of clothing and folded as neatly as she could, given the unfamiliarity of some of them. The bloomers and chemises at least were made of soft fabrics that folded down into nice simple rectangles. It took her a few moments to untangle the garter belts from their clump of elastic, but once those were laid out straight they were also easy to wrap into neat little twirls and clip onto themselves.

The corsets… she was trying not to judge too harshly. She had willingly put one on this morning, after all, and while it was a bit more movement-restricting than she was used to, it wasn’t actually all that uncomfortable. It actually provided a lot more comfortable support for her chest than some of her underwire bras did.

She wasn’t sure if she had pulled it tight enough to be _entirely_ accurate for the times, but she could breathe, and there wasn’t any rib pain like she had always thought there might be. The boning of the corset was a gentle pressure against her sides that she would need to get used to, but it did _wonders_ for the stubborn little bits of muffin top that she still had despite how much they ran.

Besides: She could look at herself in the mirror and properly appreciate having her hourglass shape _visible_ for once. Not at all in fashion with the current times, but it was a look she liked for herself.

All this was to say that she was altogether not hating the corsets -- the only issue was figuring out how to _fold_ them. She had a limited amount of storage space and she didn’t want to store extra things in her luggage if she didn’t have to.

After several minutes of struggling against one of the three corsets that the TARDIS had forced into her luggage (not including the one she was wearing), she finally just gave up and rolled it like a tube in the direction of the boning. The extra bits of ribbon were then wrapped around it to keep it that way, and she quickly rolled the other two and set them aside to fold skirts, which -- while not her preferred fashion -- were still easier to deal with than _that_.

She kept up the slow, methodical movements until her bed was spread with neatly folded piles of clothing, then set about the process of putting them away in the wardrobe. The tops and jackets were hung up on the few scant wire hangers that she had, and she made a mental note to buy more in town if she got the chance. For now, she prioritized the jackets; those needed to be as unwrinkled as possible to look nice. She folded the remaining shirts while standing in the wardrobe doorway, then closed it over and let out a slow, measured exhale.

As long as she stayed busy, she’d be fine.

She started pulling out books and organizing them along the back of her desk. _Romeo and Juliet_ , _Midsummer Night’s Dream, Taming of the Shrew,_ and _Much Ado About Nothing_ were the four plays that she’d snagged for Shakespeare, along with a book of his sonnets and poems. She’d hesitated over whether or not to nab _Macbeth_ from the TARDIS’ library, but thought that five Shakespeare books were already going to be commentable.

Next to them she organized the three books of John Donne’s poetry that she’d been meaning to read for a while, and then the Oscar Wilde books she’d also nabbed for a lark. It was difficult to think of authors published before this time period, after all, besides the famous ones, even if she’d only ever read Shakespeare before this. _The Importance of Being Earnest_ sounded like it would be a fun read for the chance of making fun of it by the title alone, but she wasn’t holding her breath on _A House of Pomegranates_.

By the time she was tugging the last toiletries out of her trunk, there was a low murmur running throughout the school of people moving about, and she glanced at the clock to see that it was lunch time. She considered, looking at the clock for a moment, before shaking her head to herself -- until she got this emotional overload taken care of, she didn’t think she was going to have much of an appetite. Besides, taking lunch would just mean having to be around people again, and she was overwhelmed with herself in being _alone_ , she doubted she’d be able to handle being _alone with people_.

Instead, she turned down her bedsheets and sat down, unbuttoning her suit jacket and blouse and fumbling with the ribbons on her corset. She’d see if she couldn’t force herself to nap, to pick up a few much needed hours of rest before having to soldier on again.

After all: she could excuse not being down for lunch or tea as being busy unpacking.

Appetite or not, she couldn’t skip dinner.

\--

He couldn’t believe it.

She was a _dream._ A rare dream, a lovely dream, but she was a dream, the queen of a place that pretended to be a blue box but was truly a realm under the Hill that could use the box to take you on adventures.

She was a dream and she was _impossible_ and there was absolutely no way she was sitting two places down from him at the High Table at Farringham School.

Well, no, obviously she was sitting there being a real person--she’d been introduced to the entire school not two minutes ago--but _clearly_ he’d seen her face in passing somehow and his errant brain had decided she was the perfect subject to spin fancies upon.

 _Tonight, the part of the Faerie Queen will be played by Miss Donna Noble._ Ha.

John Smith resolutely turned his attention to his plate. It wouldn’t do to be caught staring; the newest professor had to be exemplary, and he _was_ enjoying his job so far.

It wasn’t as if he _wanted_ to stare, anyway. Miss Noble was a handsome enough woman, if you liked that sort of thing, but--

But what? Would it really do any harm?

He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t, at the moment, quite sure of anything.

Which included not being sure of things, worse luck.

Rocastle had introduced her before allowing the boys to tuck in to dinner, imparting that she was to be as respected as any other member of staff was. She had stood briefly, giving a curtsey behind the table to the school at large in acknowledgement of her introduction, before sitting again and folding her hands in front of herself. Her eyes had focused down on her plate and there was a tension in her jaw that begged to be left alone.

Maybe that was the trouble. He wasn’t certain if he was worried for her, or about her, or why he should care.

But she just kept catching his eye.

...and not only his, it seemed.

The gent beside him -- Professor Moffat, if he recalled correctly -- had turned toward her almost as soon as the boys were allowed to start eating, and the refectory was filled with eating and chatter. Miss Noble had been slowly gathering small servings of food onto her plate, much less than most of the other teachers but still enough to have a respectable portion, and seemed quite reluctant to acknowledge his attention.

Once she had set her plate back down again, Moffat reached over to put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m quite sure you’ll like it here, madame.”

The tension in her jaw tightened, and she brought a hand up to push his hand off of her shoulder, giving a firm grimace in an attempt at a polite smile. “I’m certain, yes.”

“Are you quite so certain you have enough to eat?” Moffat gestured at her plate, resting his hand on the table beside where she had rested hers. She pulled it away.

“Enough to satisfy me, sir.”

“Well, so long as you’re _satisfied_ ~”

He winked, reaching over to tap at her wrist, and she caught hold of his hand in a move rather like a striking viper, bending it at the wrist in an angle that did not look at all comfortable. Moffat’s breath caught in his throat in shock at the sudden straining ache of his wrist. The grimace on her face was all teeth, now, a snarl wearing a smile’s sheepskin.

“ _Cease_ touching me.” She enunciated. “Or lose your hand, _sir_.”

John wasn’t sure if he was more stunned at Moffat’s audacity or Miss Noble’s rejoinder. Well, to be honest, it was the rejoinder, but _really--_

He cleared his throat. “I say, Moffat, do leave the lady alone.”

“I can fight my own battles just fine, _thank you_.” she snapped around Moffat toward him, a brittleness to her gaze that he couldn’t quite understand. She released Moffat’s wrist and turned very pointedly to focus on her plate. Moffat gave a half-hearted grumble for the sake of his dignity, clearly miffed, but also focused his attention to his food.

...Definitely not the Faerie Queen. That lady had been kind, if a little quiet, and blushed very charmingly when--he didn’t do that, that was a _dream,_ why was he even thinking about this?

His mind must have borrowed her face, that was all there was to it. But he’d try to keep an eye on Miss Noble, if only to try to figure out what on earth was going on.

It might make a nice puzzle in what was looking to be a very pleasant school year.


	3. that's her torment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two sides of the same night.
> 
> One a beautiful fantasy.
> 
> The other a crushing reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The first half contains an awful lot of Interface Screw. All the words in zalgo/spoopytext are listed in the End Notes; some day Wren will come back and hand-code them into footnotes, but today is not that day.
> 
> Also: Graphic Depiction of a panic attack. Written by someone who knows what they were talking about. Be careful luvs.

the TARDIS is glory and freedom and refuge and hideaway and _home,_ all they have but all they want (could want/would want/dared to want/had ever wanted)

is shuddering mischief under their feet and joy in their mind and laughter in their shuddering halt that sent their clever new guest onto her posterior

(human, so human, one of the most human, enterprising would-be-should-be- **Will-Be** -Doctor Martha Jones, and that’s why they’d thought of this first and asked their cleverest, dearest box to _please_ be kind, she saved our life today, let one great human meet another, the most human human, and be known for what she is, that someday she too Will know for she Must know)

is laughing and scolding them about the arrow in her door she doesn’t have yet, but they’re limited to only _one_ time-sense and not 11 dimensions, and they’re the ones cursed with linearity but then that’s what grounds her, so she forgives them

is opening out to night and sound and a crush of people and air smelling of _1599_ and new wood and lacquer in a 14 sided theater

is nudging them to go and have fun with their new pet, then, and they’re pulling Martha out of a mess but that’s only fair really, and she’s a little frightened but mostly excited and that’s just what they like best

_Miss Jones, will you accompany me to the theatre?_

_Mister Smith, I will._

the press of bodies and the cacophony of joy/laughter/music/Martha’s delight/the sparkle of timelines/the aura of genius

_Author, author! Do people shout that? do they shout Author?_

a chorus of voices, a crush around them, hearts taking up the chant of _author, author, author_

_Well, they do now._

and here is the genius, the most human human, the one who will see clearly, who will have the newest, most beautiful, most brilliant words, who will do something with them for Martha, who will say

_Ah, shut your big fat mouths!_

...ah, well, that’s humans, living to surprise them, the best distractions from everything/anything/n̵͕̗̈́̊͐͗̎ͅo̶̡̜̺͕̮̓̓̈̃̂̾́̈ț̴̛̅̏̾̆͂͐́̔͗h̵̞̲̱͓̲̜̰͔̾̾͝i̴̢̺̳͂̆͛͘n̴̝̫̙̹̉͋̑͑ͅg̵̢̜̤̝͉̲͖̭̰̳̹̬

_You should never meet your heroes._

no not thinking about that, that’s what Martha’s for, they are _treating Martha_ and remembering that the most human of humans would of course be human, how silly of them to think otherwise!

Shakespeare mocks his own play, laughs, teases.

_Well, don’t get your hose in a tangle, you’ll find out soon. Yeah, yeah, all in good time. You don’t rush a genius._

stops short, changes his mind, no it’ll be tomorrow!

new cacophony, cheering crowd and displeased/distressed/downright depressed players and confused Martha and the current of the press of people drawing them out

_Well, I was just going to give you a quick trip in the TARDIS--_

(lies, they’re always lying, the Must Be is not yet)

_\--buuuuut I suppose we could stay a bit longer._

they’ve met/will meet/are meeting Shakespeare before/now/since but this time in this face is Shakespeare’s first, which will make it interesting, and he’s trying to fob them off but then Martha steps into view from behind them

_Hey, nonny nonny._

_Come on, lads, I think our William’s found his muse._

_Sweet lady._

and the timelines pull into shape and _oh._

well.

(it’s not the first time they’ve figured out they’re playing matchmaker for a cross-time assignation!

but it never gets less embarrassing.

good for Martha, though.

and those are very important sonnets, anyway.)

Shakespeare sees through them but they would be disappointed in him if he didn’t, and Sir Doctor of TARDIS is probably one of the stupider titles they’ve ever been saddled with, and they’re trying to figure out a way to excuse themselves politely because voyeurism is _not their thing_ when a very loud velvet human stomps in, blusters about his office being _literally censorship_ and he’s going to prevent what would probably have been a cultural touchstone from being published in a fit of _pique_ and blah blah blah they’re bored now except something is funny, it can’t be this simple

oh and then Velvet drops dead.

Pretty creatively dead. They’d be very impressed except for the part where he’s _dead_ and that’s not _fair_ , it’s never _fair,_ they don’t stand for that, they have Ȓ̸̟u̵̫̐l̸͙̽ē̷͕s̵̗̚.

so it’s definitely an adventure now and they’d go off hunting it except Shakespeare is flirting with them (they’re still new at this but even they can tell a lingering look most of the time. well. sometimes. well, occasionally)

_Oh, fifty seven academics just punched the air._

and winking back at him was sort of fun and there was something about sharing a bed with Martha but they were distracted and why wasn’t she in bed with--? Oh right he had to finish the play but that part’s boring and then someone _else_ dies _right across the hall_ and they’re Going To Fix This.

the Globe in daylight, though, that’s fun, and running about finding out about things

_l̵̟̳̑͆o̶͖͒͝v̷̝͖̒̒e̷͔͖͓̕ ̶̢̖̖̤̈t̶̢̮̯͕̂̏ḧ̷̩̪́͜ę̷͎̝̲͑ ̴̱̤̞͂̏̚ȑ̶̲͇̫̏͊u̵͙̇n̸̖̹͓̍͊̀̆n̴̗̫̽į̸̙͑n̵͇̅g̴͙̓_

no they aren’t thinking about that either, they aren’t remembering out of place, they aren’t the TARDIS they’re just part of her and that voice doesn’t belong so they aren’t listening to it, and they’re so determined not to listen to it they run straight into Bedlam.

Bethlehem “Hospital.” the other most human thing. they hate it. they skip that too.

_You lost your son._

_My only boy ( ḡ̷̘͙̠i̸̱̿̄͝r̶͙̰̟̕l̵͓̿) The Black Death took him (ą̴̳̻͍̥̙̔͛͛̏ ̵̛͉͚͇̱͐̈́̌͝g̵̨̓̅̆u̵̯̺͍͗̉̔n̵̹̞̩͗ ̸̟̊̃͝t̸̪͈̩̜̬͉́̊ô̵̤̗̖̫̙͕̔ơ̴̧̲͎͉̅̐͌́̿k̴̡̤͉͎̃͛ ̵̳͖͎̥͘ͅh̷̺̖̼̗͂͐̌̌͌͑ȇ̷̲͔̟̣͙̤̄͛̊r̴͚̲̠͆̎̂̏) I wasn’t even there _

_( s̲̠̯̰̥̓́̂̈̐̈̒̂͆͝ͅ ḩ̢̭̹̯̰͓̘̱̲̺ͮ̐͐ͭ͠ ȩ̢̤̪̬̺͚̻͚̎̔̎ͣ͂͛͛ d̨̺̳̥̙̫̪̠̆͊̅̊̚͢͜͜ ḭ̴̵̴̜̲̖͚̞̞̗̇̏̉͂̾ ḛ̱̳͙̹͓̬̞̣̒ͦ̽͢͝͝ͅ d̻̦̬̤̰̦̙̩̻̗̖ͦ̐̓̔͞ i̢̨̧̩̣̬̙̝̖̻ͤ̇ͦ̆ͣͅ ņ̧̣͈̭̜̣̜̗ͤ̐̇ͫ͗͜͠ ḿ̶̨̭̼̟̮̜̱͇̝̞̈̃̽ͅ ÿ̨̮̮̭̘͚̦̘̓̍ͣͦ̇͛ͅ a̧̢̪̻̥̱̤̜̮͚̫ͨ͛̓̓ r̢̳̲͔̣̲͍̬̭̈̍̂ͫ̆͆͝ m̵̛̰͙̪̣̹̞̺͚͔͑̂̌̇̚ š̵̵̤̩̰͔̭̪̻̫ͦ̅ͩ͆͜ )_

they

aren’t

thinking

about

it

it hasn’t happened for them yet there’s someone else there along with Martha when that happens they don’t have to they _won’t_

_Peter, I’m the Doctor. Go into the past_ _( l̸̥̉e̷̗͐t̸̜͗ ̷̪̂m̴̈͜e̸͌ͅ ̷͎̑g̶̞͝o̵̬͒ ̴͇̽t̵̤͐ẖ̴̈́ḙ̸̽r̵̖͊e̵͚̋ ̷̘́w̴̾ͅi̸̢̛t̴̼̔ĥ̶̰ ̷̝̓ỵ̷͌ơ̵̳u̵̟͊), one year ago (ő̵͜n̵̞̐ë̵̜ ̶͙̓m̷̡̋o̷͖̓n̶̻̓t̵̟̔h̸̉͜ ̴̮̃m̴̦̑y̵̯̌ ̸̟̆t̴͇͋ĭ̴̢m̸̨̾e̸̲̓)_

_Let your mind go back._

_Back to when everything was fine and shining ( ŵ̵̭̟̋̆ḫ̸͗̓̚ȩ̸̤̩̉̍̿n̴̤͍̾̈́͘ ̷̧̳̤̃͘̕s̴̺̀̏̆h̵̺̹͇͊̑e̵̹̗͊̔̈ ̴̨͆ŵ̷̦̩̺̊̅a̴͍͋͗ͅṧ̸̹͇̼ ̵̘̭̿s̵̱͂̈̍m̷͎͕̈́i̷̮̓ͅl̸̠̳͊̚i̴̢͔̚̚n̵̼̗̙͑g̵͎̙̯̿͋). Everything that happened in this year since happened to somebody else (w̷e̷ ̵a̴r̴e̷ ̷s̸o̶m̵e̶b̴o̵d̵y̷ ̸e̷l̸s̶e̷ ̵r̶i̷g̵h̸t̷ ̵n̵o̸w̴ ̶w̴e̶ ̴d̶o̸n̴’̶t̸ ̷h̸a̵v̷e̴ ̸t̷o̶ ̵b̷e̵ ̵t̷h̷e̵m̴ ̵w̵e̴ ̸d̴o̴n̴’̷t̵ ̷h̵a̶v̵e̴ ̸t̷o̷ ̴m̸o̸u̵r̸n̷). It was just a story. A Winter’s Tale. _

just a story like they’re a dazzling madman in a magic box and all they have to do is sparkle and matchmake and be clever and save the day and coax lucidity from the lips of someone heavily traumatized by word magic and that’s easy because they cheat, they’re always cheating

but then the witch shows up and spoils it, because Carrionites are party poopers like that. even Time Lords thought so.

at least banishing them with their name’s a fun trick. they look wonderful doing it.

~~yes they **are** enjoying being this pretty, why do you ask? wait you’re me, why **are** you asking?~~

~~shh. we don't usually get to be the audience. hush and enjoy the ride.~~

they even look wonderful flat on the floor with one heart stopped. really they do. better to have it back, though, and better yet to not be taunted about Rose and how they failed her, and better to run and run even if they realise ten steps in they’re going the wrong way.

(six steps after Martha yells at them that they were)

(oh well, they knew Martha was clever, that was the whole point, and better to be admired but only **so** much)

the pillar of red light and the vortex of witches doesn’t look so wonderful, though. spoils the feng shui, no, external environment is the _wa,_ maybe Martha will like J̷̞̈́a̸̮͋p̶͇̀a̵͉̕ṉ̶͊?

misusing words! how annoying... but they’ve got the greatest wordsmith right here!

_Trust yourself (as i don’t trust me)._

_Words that last forever._

_That’s what you do, Will, you choose perfect words. Do it. Improvise._

_My doting Doctor tells me I am not!_

_~~Good old JK!~~ _

(e̴x̶c̶e̵p̶t̴ ̸n̷o̸t̴,̸ ̷n̷o̶t̷,̷ ̵s̴h̴e̵ ̵h̷u̶r̸t̷s̷ ̵p̴e̴o̴p̶l̷e̶ ̸t̵e̴r̶r̵i̷b̸l̶y̴,̷ ̶a̴t̵ ̶l̶e̷a̶s̴t̸ ̸W̵i̸l̶l̶ ̴w̵a̵s̶n̵’̷t̸ ̴t̶h̸a̷t̶ ̸k̷i̶n̵d̷ ̷o̷f̶ ̷d̷i̷s̶a̷p̸p̴o̴i̴n̶t̵m̵e̵n̴t̸)

the witches are trapped, the world is saved, Martha and Shakespeare are taking their bows, and the Doctor slips off (and slips a note into Martha’s pocket: have fun, don’t worry about consequences, see you in the morning) to collect the tackiest snowglobe ever created.

the Globe in the morning, a very pleased Shakespeare reciting the freshly written Sonnet 18 to a relaxed and deservedly _smug_ Martha, a Sycorax skull, a new fashion statement, and no sign of the lost play…

...except in the TARDIS library.

safer there, really.

they bid their fond farewells to Shakespeare (Martha’s lasted several minutes, they should check for a respiratory bypass) and then a whole new cacophony of trumpets and timelines and Destiny and oh wow it’s Elizabeth I!

...who hates them.

typical.

the arrow is right on time.

the TARDIS is laughing and scolding and teasing and they’re safe inside her warm embrace and Martha is laughing and they’re laughing and for just a little while

l̸̠̯̰̥̬̒̂ͪ͆͢ͅi̹̩̯̰͓̘̱̲̐͐͢͠f̢̢̼̤̪̟͙̫̔̎͆͛ę̭̻̻͚̹̙̯͈̘ͤͦ į̫̪̠̙̰̊ͮ̇̚͜͜s̵̻̰̰̜̲̖͚̞̏̉͂ w̮̯̰̻͇͙̹̌̃̒͛͝o̢̭̣̠̺̩ͫ͗̌͛͆͢n̴̡̬̤̙̩̻̗̖͚͈͞ḋ̢͚̪̩̣̬̙̝̖ͦ̆ȩ̣̣͕̩̠̜͓͈̽ͤ͞r̛̯̜̗̪̖̜̗̭̺ͨ̉f̶̢̮̜̱͇̝̞̜̽̏ų̮̜̭̭̘͚̦̍ͣͦ͛l̨̢̢̧̢̪̺͔̅ͨͅ

*

Somebody woke up, sat up, and briefly wondered where the hell he was, or what, or whom.

*

And then he shook his head, and laughed at himself, because he was John Smith, the new history professor at Farringham School for Boys, and how could he be anyone else?

“If we shadows have offended,” he murmured, and shook his head. “No, it wasn’t _Midsummer_ , it was _Love’s Labour’s Lost_. Getting sloppy, old man.”

He lit the lamp and took out his journal. That was one of the most interesting dreams yet, and wasn’t it lucky he had a fresh new volume? As fresh as his new life.

Now, then, they were in the blue box that wasn’t a blue box that was Underhill, and they were visiting William Shakespeare that they might introduce him to the Dark Lady, and…

Wait, didn’t the blue box belong to the Faerie Queen? She had been so natural there, so perfect, that surely it had to be her kingdom.

But the Doctor was a part of the box, and the box a part of the Doctor, and John _knew,_ as one did in the way of dreams, that if they were separated, they would die.

...Well, perhaps the Queen was their wife?

Yes, that made sense. John couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought of it before, except for that the Queen had worn no ring. He’d kissed her left hand just so that he could check.

Still, the Doctor was a time traveller, and one never knew with faeries. Perhaps they were simply out of order.

John scribbled down what of the dream he could remember (the mourning bits were rather worrying, but of course an adventurer’s life couldn’t only be fun and games), and began an attempt to sketch Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I, only to realize halfway that he was drawing Donna Noble. Or perhaps that _was_ the Queen, after all; she was in the curious raiment she’d had in her Underhill kingdom.

Still, it was one of his better ones, and it would be a pity to stop before he was yawning again.

He did hope Miss Noble’s evening had improved.

\--

They were quiet while they got ready for bed. Nurse Redfern had her eyes on what she was doing while she tugged on a nightgown over her head, and Donna had turned toward the opposite wall to give the woman her privacy. She’d roomed with others before, she knew the drill.

“D’you mind if I use the vanity to brush out my hair?” she asked, mostly to be polite. “It tangles like nothing else if I sleep on it without doing that.”

“Go right ahead.” Nurse Redfern hummed, moving to her bed and settling herself under the covers. She pulled a book from the drawer of her nightstand and settled in with it, leaving the half of the room with the vanity free. Donna walked over to it and settled in front of the mirror, grabbing the one brush that she’d thought to grab off of the TARDIS that morning -- she’d have to buy another in town, or make a run out to the barn at some point, since she’d forgotten her proper detangling brush.

The worst part about having a roommate was the sense of trying to figure out where the orbits were. How close one could get without encroaching in the other’s space. How to move about the shared space without getting too close. It always felt like a dance that Donna didn’t know the steps to until she was forced to do it again.

She started picking out the pins holding her hair in place, letting the strands fall free in a small cascade of ginger to rest around her shoulders, then brought the brush up to start at the ends. It was going to be a slower process without her detangler, but she rather hoped that Nurse Redfern would actually go to sleep during that time. Maybe then Donna could deal with the buzzing swarm in her chest, demanding her attention, which had grown more insistent and violent throughout the hours she’d been pushing through everything.

She kept her eyes on her own in the mirror, but let her peripheral vision keep an eye on the matron in the reflection. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Nurse Redfern was also watching her through her peripherals, even though she seemed perfectly engrossed in her book.

_In a clearing made of cleavings, stag sees another stag. They watch each other, they share no story. I will not cross you and you must move on. There is nothing else._

Donna bit down on a shiver as the scant bit of poetry drifted through her mind, from a book written by an author who wasn’t born yet. She couldn’t take it with her, but there was something fitting about the vast lonely feeling that Richard Siken could pour into just a few words. It certainly matched how alone she felt right then. She lowered her free hand to press the fob watch into her sternum hard enough to hurt, trying to remind herself that she wasn’t, not really.

She methodically moved from the side of her head to the back of her head once she could bring the brush fully through from root to tip, and started the process again. It almost took more effort to keep her breathing steady than it did to focus on the feeling of her hair slipping between the bristles of the brush.

Nurse Redfern was _still_ watching her, she was sure of it.

By the time she had finally smoothed out all of the tangles in her hair and could bring the brush through from any angle without catching, the swarm of flies in her chest had become wasps. She put the brush down with care, and moved back over to her own bed, carefully scooping up the little faerie doll from her pillows and setting it delicately on her nightstand. She brushed the felted hair out of its face with her fingertips, leaning it against the lamp so that it was turned toward her and could keep sentry.

“Goodnight.” she said. Nurse Redfern closed her book and set it aside, reaching over to turn out her bedside lamp.

“Goodnight, Miss Noble,” she said, inclining her head briefly before settling further down into bed. Donna lay down herself, hands folded over her stomach and staring up at the ceiling, listening to the breathing of the other person in the room.

Everything was _too much too quiet too full too real too **alone**..._

When she couldn’t stand the buzzing in her chest any longer, and she thought that Nurse Redfern was asleep, she carefully pushed aside her blankets and padded out of bed again. The sound was the loudest one in the room other than her now-hammering heart.

She walked to the door to the balcony, clicking it open as quietly as she could with the unfamiliar latch, and closing it behind her in a similar fashion. Once outside in the chill air, the swarm in her chest lurched up her throat until she choked on it.

She gripped the railing of the balcony and let her knees give out underneath her, dragging a shaky, hissing breath in between her gritted teeth and shuddering from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. A cold sweat started on her forehead, and she could barely feel her hands as they tightened on the frigid wrought iron.

She was in 1913. In less than one year’s time, an Austrian archduke would be assassinated by a Serbian and the world would plunge into war, and the boys at _this_ school -- some of them still so fresh faced, so _young_ \-- were training to be officers, and she knew that there would be faces here who would not reach their majority, even if she didn’t know who yet.

She was in 1913. In less than one day she had gone from enjoying a day out with her Spaceman to running for their lives to trembling in her room on the TARDIS to hearing them _scream_ for the first time she had ever known of them.

_She was in 1913._

And she didn’t know how long she would be here.

She didn’t even have the dumb Martian with her to complain about it.

She

was

so

very

_**alone.** _

Step one to getting through the inevitable panic attack, she remembered distantly, was remembering to breathe. Her chest felt like it couldn’t hold enough air, like there was an iron band wrapped around it, pushing all of the air out through the holes that the wasps had left. It was always worse when she had to put it off, left time for more holes to be jabbed through her lungs.

She sucked air in until it hurt, to make sure that she had enough. Every part of her was shaking with each heaving breath, and the air on her face was colder than anywhere else, stabbing at her flushed skin with icy bristles. She pressed her forehead into the wrought iron and tried to focus on that singular point of ice rather than the stabbing cold.

“I don’t know how you expect me to _do this_.” she wheezed, closing her eyes as tight as she could against the panicked tears.

Something soft and warm draped itself over her shoulders.

She jerked at the sudden weight, eyes snapping open and breath catching in her throat.

Nurse Redfern tucked the dressing gown over her a little closer, hands squeezing her upper arms through the cloth. “Come back inside,” she said gently. “You’ll catch your death like this.”

Donna was shaking, but she could barely feel the cold. Her hands were gripping onto the balcony like she was afraid she would fall if she let go. Nurse Redfern was sitting beside her, _Nurse Redfern was seeing her fall apart._

The words caught in her throat. She whimpered breathlessly.

“Breathe with me,” Nurse Redfern said firmly. “In and out, you can do it.”

Donna closed her eyes tightly again, forcing air in through her nose and holding it for a few seconds before letting it slip out between her lips again. She tried to focus on the repeated cadence of counting to four -- four in, four hold, four out. Slowly, like prying mollusks off of the Hoover Dam, she managed to unclench her hands from the railing one finger at a time, and the iron band around her chest loosened by inches.

“Good,” the matron said gently, “That’s good work. Can you stand?”

“I--” Donna swallowed around another breath, “I don’t know yet.”

“That’s all right. Help me get this on you.” The nurse helped her slide her arms into the sleeves, and then tied the gown for her. “There now. I’d hardly be a good nurse if I let you take a chill on our balcony, now would I?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Donna whispered miserably, avoiding eye contact. “Didn’t-- didn’t want to trouble you. With this.”

The nurse chuckled sadly. “Oh, Miss Noble, I never went to sleep. You’re hardly the only person in this school to cry in secret, I promise you. But I’m the Matron, and it’s my business to look after everyone.”

“Still…” Donna wheezed, bringing a hand up to scrub at her eyes and realizing belatedly how much her fingers _ached_ from how tightly she had been holding the balcony railing. “S’not… not anything I can’t… handle.” _Not anything I’m not used to handling._

“Yes, I can see that you have a system worked out,” Nurse Redfern said mildly. “But I’m here, and I want to help. I trained as a nurse because I wanted to help. Please let me.”

She took another shuddering breath, not sure how to accept the help that was offered to her. She’d been doing this on her own, _handling_ it on her own, for so long now that it felt _wrong_ to ask for help.

She could feel the nurse’s eyes on her again. “Let me help you inside, that you at least might deal with your emotions in the warm, if you can’t bear more. It will not leave the room, nor will I judge you.”

Donna swallowed against the lump in her throat. “It… won’t be pretty.” she offered, in a small voice. “I… I put it off too long, it’s… it’s going to suck.”

“It never is,” Nurse Redfern said with the voice of long experience. “So many boys, all trying _desperately_ not to let on that they feel anything that might smack of ‘bad form’ until they can get away into a corner or hide under the covers where everyone can pretend they aren’t crying either. I promise you, I will very likely have seen worse. Come, up you get.”

She swallowed heavily again, gripping the edges of her dressing gown.

“I’ll make cocoa,” Nurse Redfern wheedled.

“Bribing me?” Donna asked, voiceless, with a weak smile. “Not very matronly.”

“Nonsense,” she smirked, “It’s the oldest trick in the book.”

With a bit of extra help from Nurse Redfern, Donna managed to straighten the lock of her knees, and push shakily to her feet. Her heart rate was still raised, and she knew that she hadn’t gotten through everything, knew that she was going to face a second wave, but… somehow the thought of going under again didn’t scare her as much this time.

Perhaps it was the gently businesslike fussing as she was chivvied back inside and tucked into bed with a glass of water and a pile of clean handkerchiefs. “I go through _piles,_ ” the nurse assured her, and kept up a gentle patter of sensible commonplaces as she produced a spirit lamp and a tiny pot from her bedside table, set it up on one of the desks, and created cocoa out of what seemed like nothing at all. It couldn’t be, of course, but the odd similarity to the Doctor’s favorite magic-pockets party trick was … nice.

For her part, Donna let go.

She wrapped herself around a pillow, pushed her face into it, and shuddered until she finally stilled. She let everything seep out of her until there was nothing left, until the storm in her mind finally quieted and her emotions returned to baseline. She cried until she lost the tears to do so, and caught her breath at the end, with everything sore but finally free of tension after this unending day.

At the end of it, she finally peeled her face from the wet spot on the pillow she had squeezed the stuffing out of, ruined a handkerchief or three, and got up on shaky feet to go to the washroom and splash her face with cold water.

When she emerged, there was a hot mug waiting on her bedside table, a careful distance from the faerie, and Nurse Redfern was sitting up in bed with a mug of her own. She glanced up, but the gaze seemed less like a judgement and more like … room to speak, if Donna wished to.

She didn’t know what to say. All she really knew was to sit herself on her bed and scoop up the mug, holding the heat between her hands and inhaling the warm scent of the cocoa. She didn’t drink for a long moment, just letting the smell and the heat soothe her, but when she finally took a sip, she sighed out one final relieved exhale, glad to have it all behind her.

“Thank you.” she murmured into the quiet between them. “I don’t… I just… thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome, Miss Noble,” the nurse said gently.

“Oh, come off it.” She laughed weakly, “You’ve seen me at my worst, you _of all people here_ can call me Donna.”

“Then I’m Joan,” that worthy returned with her own little smirk. “Now drink up, you need your sleep.”

Donna smiled, continuing to sip at her cocoa, and let herself feel truly safe for the first time since this mess started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. nothing  
> 2\. Rules  
> 3\. love the running.  
> 4\. girl  
> 5\. a gun took her  
> 6\. she died in my arms  
> 7\. let me go there with you  
> 8\. one month my time  
> 9\. when she was smiling  
> 10\. we are somebody else right now we don't have to be them we don't have to mourn  
> 11\. Japan  
> 12\. except not, she hurts people terribly, at least Will wasn't that kind of disappointment  
> 13\. life is wonderful


	4. get thee a wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Smith and Donna Noble are dedicated to their jobs--both official and self-assigned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: Historical analysis with a distinctly modern bent, leading to implications of childhood abuse and childhood sexual abuse with regard to the 'lovers' of Katherine Howard, onetime Queen to Henry VIII of England.

Professor John Smith looked over the student roster as the first class filed in and wondered how long it took to get used to teaching. Surely the new shine would have worn off after the first week, but here he was, fighting the smile. A proper serious mien was necessary. Yes. Of course.

He could even hold one, so long as he didn’t try to sit still. At least leaning on the desk was acceptable, if borderline.

The last stragglers sauntered in--Baines and Hutchinson, something of a pattern there--and he set the roll aside on the desk. “Now then,” he said briskly, “the dynastic neuroses and gymnastics of King Henry VIII.”

Some boys snickered, some didn’t, which didn’t necessarily indicate which actually got the joke so much as who dared show intelligence or draw attention. Hutchinson huffed quietly, and a half beat later, Baines did too, and their friend Merryweather; Latimer’s lips twitched, as did his friend Narayan-Singh’s, but they made no noise. The rest he was still getting their measure.

“His desire for immortality--for that’s what securing a dynasty or a line of inheritance is, have no doubt of that--led to the establishment of the Supreme Head of the Church of England, religious upheaval and persecutions for generations to come, and the succession disputes between Lady Jane Grey, Queen Mary I and Queen Elizabeth, which is ironic in that he wished to _avoid_ a repeat of the Wars of the Roses. Indeed, Yorkist challenge to the throne remained a possibility as late as 1525...”

\--

It had certainly been a morning unlike any that she had had in a long while. Donna couldn’t quite recall the last time she had gotten to sleep until a designated time of day -- travelling with the Doctor, while fun, was _not_ prone to sleeping in; they had a tendency of hollering for her in the early mornings with adventure ideas, and once she was up, she was up.

She woke at seven despite her full intent to stay in bed until eight, when Joan was leaving the room. There was an option for nabbing breakfast if she got ready quickly enough, but she wasn’t hurried. She ended up taking her time getting dressed, putting her hair up in a respectable topknot, and grabbing some sort of a piece of fruit from the refectory on the ground floor on her way into the office.

Which was, as it had been the day before: in shambles.

She made eye contact with Rocastle, who was digging through piles of papers clearly looking for something, and pursed her lips. “Is what you’re looking for urgent?” she asked politely.

“Define urgent, Miss Noble.”

“Can it wait to be found for about an hour?”

He looked up, giving her a weighing look. Donna hoped that she managed to seem as unflappable as she wanted to, that she hadn’t let on that the task before her was at least a little bit daunting.

“One hour.” Rocastle allowed. She gestured to the door.

“If you haven’t gone and had breakfast, sir, I suggest doing so,” she said with a firm smile, “I have an office to reorganize.”

He gave one amused huff of air, and walked out. Donna counted that as a win.

She brought her hands to her chin and the side of her head, cracked her neck, and got to work.

\--

John had managed to briefly refresh the boys on the bits of the Wars of the Roses that were pertinent to the lecture without completely bogging down in minutiae or boring himself _or_ the boys to tears, which he considered an accomplishment. Wars of succession were so messy, and so far as the ordinary people were concerned, that one had been something of a tempest in a teapot.

“We all know the mnemonic--or at least I hope we do. The six wives of Henry VIII. Someone recite it for me--” He glanced down at the roll. Seemingly-random questioning helped keep everyone guessing, and teased the more academically defensive out of hiding. “Yes, you, Narayan-Singh.”

Utter silence ruled the classroom. John looked up to find all of them gawking at him, Maharaj Anand Shri Vishnu Narayan-Singh most of all. What, did none of them even _attempt_ the boy’s surname? Surely the mark of a gentleman was basic respect. Names were _important._

But these were schoolboys, English schoolboys, and contempt was as inculcated in the culture as cricket. John would simply have to lead by example.

“Well?”

Narayan-Singh sat a little more to attention, quite the feat for a boy already trained to perfect posture. “'Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived,' sir.”

“Yes, very good. But what can you tell me about the women themselves?”

\--

For an hour of work, in an environment that sorely needed it, Donna thought she'd done a pretty good job. Rocastle returned as she was filling away the second half of the student records, neatly alphabetized into the two bottom drawers of the filing cabinet next to the desk. The top drawer had been repurposed for master templates of varying types of paperwork that needed to be filled out regularly, so that she would be able to type out copies when needed.

She had also managed to get through the sorting process for the various other piles of paperwork, and knew that putting them away would be much faster than figuring out _where_ to put each stack. There were six drawers on the desk, and the three in the filing cabinet, which should just about work out if she kept the pens on top of the desk instead of in a drawer.

"Is the chaos contained to a point where I will be able to find what I needed, Miss Noble?" Rocastle spoke up from the doorway.

"What type of paper was it?" Donna asked absently, slipping the last student file away.

"The finalized listing of loaned weaponry from last year's Officer Training Corps classes, to cross reference for this year's acquisitions."

Donna's lip curled faintly, but she got it under control before she turned around again, gesturing at the central pile still neatly stacked on the desk. "Left side pile is financial documents, the central one is papers related to officer training, and the right pile is paperwork for the other teachers to fill out. I used your calendar to figure out which ones were due and overdue."

While Rocastle aimed for the central pile, Donna scooped up the financial documents and got them squared away by type of document in the left three drawers on the desk. She grabbed the rest of the pile once he had tugged out a sheet, looking rather astonished to have found it within a minute of looking for it, and squared those off in the bottom, largest drawer on the right side of the desk. The non-officer-training related papers for the other teachers to fill out would find their way into the top two drawers -- the top for need-to-do’s, and the middle for done-and-filed’s.

“Don’t touch the pens.” Donna said as she picked up the last pile, “I’m going to get a cup to put them in, I don’t want any of them disappearing. Especially not the blue fountain pen, I rather like that one.” And with that, she moved toward the door. Rocastle was left in the center of a cleaner office than he had had for well over a year, looking mildly baffled.

“Wait, where are you--”

“These need to get distributed to the teachers,” she held up the pile in her arms. “I’ll be back later. Like I said, don’t touch the pens.”

And out she went.

\--

They were still gawking at him, but gawking was good; it meant they were _listening._ “Gentlemen, history is not only dates and significant facts. Those are important, yes, but to understand what happened and _why_ , a diligent historian must _contextualize._ Who were these people? What was their environment, both in physical circumstance and what was expected of them as a member of a society? What were they likely to know at the time? Who did they hate, who did they love, to what were they merely indifferent?”

Some nods were going about the room, and some confusion, some intrigue--and some mulishness. Latimer and Narayan-Singh weren’t surprising as nodders, given their likely outcast status, but Hutchinson, now that was interesting. He looked intrigued for a moment, but then cut looks at Baines and Merryweather, and promptly set his features to match their stubborn disapproval. A hand would go up any moment now--yes, just as expected. He’d have to prove himself right-thinking by setting the standard.

Excellent. A spot of debate made for retention. “Yes, Hutchinson?”

“Please, sir,” Hutchinson drawled, “Why does it matter about the women?” He paused at John’s pointed eyebrow, and amended, “Back then, I mean, what they thought or felt. Hadn’t they to do what they were told?”

“Good gad, Hutchinson,” John drawled right back, “They may not have had many rights but they had minds of their own, and they _used_ them. Cromwell admired Catherine of Aragon for a reason, and let us bear in mind that she was the ambassador for Spain, hm? The first female ambassador in European history, no less. And if that doesn’t impress you, she was regent of England for six months. We might also consider Anne Boleyn, who had enormous influence on policy even before she was married. She could grant petitions, receive diplomats, and give patronage, and every ambassador knew that if you wanted to influence the Court you needed her favor...”

\--

The ground floor had the office areas, refectory and kitchen, and housekeeping quarters, the first floor housed all of the classrooms, the second floor had all of the mens’ quarters and the boys’ dormitories, and the third floor was storage and her room with Joan. Donna knew that she was going to get used to all of the stair climbing eventually, traversing from the third floor to the ground floor and back up at least once every day, and various other floors in between, but it did leave her quietly missing the world of automated elevators.

Walking through the empty hallways, however, was always the calmest part of being a secretary, the brief moments of soothing aloneness between necessary socializations, so Donna used the travel time to the best effect by letting her expression relax from its professional blankness while out in the hallways and walking up the stairs. She kept the papers in her hands stacked neatly, kept herself alert in case anyone came out of the doors on either side of the hallway, but otherwise let her shoulders slacken and her pleasant smile fall off of her face.

Mr. Challpner was in the middle of explaining the most basic forms of Latin conjugation to his class when she knocked on the door, pulling herself back into a pleasantly professional persona. He gave her a brief, uninterested once over but nodded her inside, and she walked over to his desk to place his copies of the overdue papers there, making as quick and efficient an escape as her entrance had been. He didn’t say a word, so she didn’t either, just got herself in, did what she needed to do, and left again.

Mr. Denman, standing at the chalkboard in front of an actually quite impressive drawing of a human brain, gave her a jovial smile when she knocked on the door jamb to his room, one which she politely returned. “What can I do for you, Miss Noble?” he asked cheerfully.

“Some paperwork, sir.” she said, keeping her own tone as cheerfully clipped as possible, holding up the stack of papers, “It’s overdue, as it happens, so please try and have it done for me to file by dinner?”

“Of _course_.” Denman’s face reminded her a little bit uncomfortably of Santa Claus, bright and merry and with a twitching blond moustache. She separated out the papers for him and held them out to him, keeping a firm hold on her polite smile as he took them from her, and then nodded a final time and made her tactical retreat.

That she needed to take a brief moment in the hallway to just exhale tension out of her system was between her and the polished wood floors, and no one else.

Mr. Robertson, in the next room down, scowled at her when she knocked on the door. She arched one delicate eyebrow at him until he huffed; “Something _for_ you?”

“Papers, sir.” Her tone was just as clipped and to the point as his was. “Fill them out and get them back to me by dinner, please.”

“Fine, fine, now get out, some of us have classes to teach.”

Donna gave one brief, tight lipped smile, placed the requisite papers on his desk, and strode out with her head held high. She’d dealt with plenty of management who had that sort of attitude, and considering the time period they were in, she was rather surprised that it had taken her three teachers to reach the scornful one. He’d get used to her eventually.

The next room she arrived at made her lip curl. Ugh. She _did_ have to do this, didn’t she.

Moffat, for English Lit. The students had their books open on their desks and were turned toward the front when she knocked, but she noticed a few of the older boys giving her a once over or two as well when she stepped in. Moffat, for his part, turned and immediately _smiled_ in a way that made her skin crawl.

“Ahh, Miss Noble. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She gave a gritted smile and held up the papers in her arms. “I do wonder, sir.”

She separated out the fourth of six piles, her fight-or-flight instincts kicking in when he strode toward the door to collect them from her, still smiling that discomfiting smile. He made a rather big show of taking them slowly, and she had to bite down on bile when his fingers rather deliberately brushed against hers in the passover. She resisted the urge to wipe them off on her skirt.

“Have them finished by dinner.” She said, clipped and coldly polite. His eyes studied her face with that damned smile remaining unchanged, and he nodded toward her in such a way that it necessitated him to lean a bit further into her space again.

“Of course.” he said, in a mockery of warmth, “Anything else, madam?”

“No, that ought to be it.” She maintained her frigid politeness regardless of his apparent desire to _thaw_ whatever walls she was putting up. Ugh. “I’ll not take up any more of your time.”

“Oh, there’s no need to hurry on _my_ account, but if you must.” He said, still with _that. Damned. Creepy. Smile_ , and she _really_ needed to get out of there. “Until next time, Miss Noble.”

She didn’t flee, but she didn’t exit with grace, either.

God, what had started as a simple task to get herself out of that office for a bit had turned into a trial over the course of _one_ conversation. She shook herself, trying to will away the crawling in her skin, and strode to the last door on the hallway. One more and then she could go back downstairs, drop off the last set of papers for Mr. Phillips in the OTC Coordination office, and then throw herself back into mindless petty paperwork for the rest of the day.

At least she sort of knew who she would be dealing with.

\--

Hutchinson had long since taken John’s point, and had given up mulishness at being corrected in favor of interested note-taking. Most of the class seemed equally attentive. There were hold-outs, of course, Baines and Merryweather in particular, but one had to take what victories one could, and at least they weren’t disrupting class. Examinations would see to them in the end.

Now for the difficult part.

“Which brings us to Katherine Howard--”

There was a knock on the door, and the boys all turned as one to see Miss Noble standing there with a small pile of papers tucked under one arm, looking into the room with a strange sort of calm that didn’t quite seem to reach her eyes. “She was sentenced to death at eighteen years old, as it happens.” she offered, almost like an olive branch. “And she _practiced_ laying her head on the chopping block while imprisoned, so that ought to tell you a bit about her personal sense of morbid humor.”

There was dead silence for a moment. John briefly gave thanks that everyone was already gawking at her, because it allowed him to pretend he wasn’t gawking, _too._ “An excellent point, thank you Miss Noble. Remember, boys, that some of you have outlived her already.”

“That, and it might also do to remember that her husband was 49 to her barely 17 when they married.” Miss Noble added with a tight, uncomfortable sort of smile. “As old as some of your fathers, I’m sure.”

John couldn’t very well embarrass Miss Noble by asking her if she was all right _now,_ regardless of if he had any misgivings, and he couldn’t afford to drop the momentum, not when the boys were beginning to take their meaning. “She was also never given a formal trial, and she was declared a traitor by bill of attainder under the Royal Assent by Commission Act 1541, an Act of Parliament passed more or less specifically to convict her _as_ a traitor for failure to disclose her previous … relationships… to her royal spouse, and for alleged adultery with the courtier Thomas Culpeper, who was 27.” He smiled grimly at his audience. “I use ‘relationships’ with a grain of salt, as the _youngest_ age that can be calculated for Henry Mannox was 23, and he may well have been as old as 36 when he became her music teacher. Katherine Howard would have been at that time 13. When she was 15, her next ‘relationship’ was alleged to be with her guardian’s secretary, Francis Dereham, who is calculated to have been anywhere from 29 to 32.”

John let this linger for a moment. Their faces were certainly gratifyingly puzzled. Even Merryweather was beginning to look dismayed. “Bear in mind that her branch of the Howards was destitute and minor until her elevation, and would have been of no useful recourse. Consider this while I assist Miss Noble,” he added, and went to join her at the door.

“Sorry to interrupt.” she said softly when he neared her. “I have some paperwork that’s overdue for all of the teachers.”

His lips twitched without his permission. “Duty comes to us all, and you certainly assisted me in making my point. What needs to be done?”

She sorted through the pile in her hands with deft fingers, cutting it rather neatly in half and holding out the smaller pile to him, “I’m going over necessary paperwork later this evening and cross referencing what’s been done off of that list so I might find more, but these, for now. These are about a week overdue for everyone, lost in the... shuffle. Of the office. They were meant to be done before the school year started.”

John tried to take comfort in that it was the smaller pile; he vividly remembered the swamp of papers that Rocastle called an office. “You’re undertaking something akin to one of the labours of Herakles, I’m afraid,” he sympathized, reaching for them. “I’ll see to these during my office hours this afternoon--”

The papers slipped on the transfer, nearly falling from between their hands when Miss Noble loosened her hold before John had fully managed his. He managed the catch with quick enough reflexes to save a scattered pile, but bumped against her hand when she did the same.

“Terribly sorry,” he said ruefully, and could _feel_ the blush rising to his cheeks. (Her skin was so very soft.) Thank everything for the terrible angle; none of the boys should be able to spot it.

“It's-- fine. So long as I have them by dinner, I want to get them filed as soon as possible.” She pulled her hand back, tucking it back around the remaining papers she still held, holding perhaps a bit tighter than necessary and making the pile crinkle softly under the strain.

“Of course, Miss Noble,” he said briskly, hoping to save both of them further embarrassment. “Is there any other way I can assist you?”

“Not that I can think of." She looked a bit uncomfortable, nodding her head politely toward him. "I’ll leave you to your class."

She turned to go, but paused. She glanced over her shoulder. " _Do_ mention to them how Anne of Cleves outlived the other five wives, despite Catherine Parr being ascribed the ‘survived’ epithet.”

John had to smile. It was rather pleasant to find that there was more to his new coworker than exhaustion and a fierce regard for her personal bubble. (What a curious phrase! Where had he read it?) “But of course. Good afternoon, Miss Noble.”

She nodded again, a strange, distant intensity in her eyes for a few seconds, before hurrying out the door.

He tucked the papers under his arm and strode back to his desk. His timing was good; the boys were beginning to look less dismayed and more uncomfortable. Any longer and they might have remembered they were temporarily without supervision. “Let us turn for the moment from mortality and the perfidy that can be exacted against the helpless to the question of survival. As our helpful rhyme would have it, this would be Catherine Parr, a fascinating woman in her own right…”

\--

While Donna walked back toward the stairs down to the ground level again, she let out a slow breath with the accumulated tension. She hadn't actually intended to insert herself into J-- into Mr. Smith's lesson like that, but the name she'd heard him say at the time was familiar enough to both recognize the lesson subject and call up the trivia information from a previous conversation with the Doctor. And the entire class had turned to look at her, and so had Mr. Smith _with_ _the Doctor's eyes_ but he wasn't looking at her with any more than the most basic of recognition, and she'd briefly forgotten how to articulate her intent in the mental trip up that followed--

In short, of the options fight, flight, and freeze, Donna had frozen. For the first time in as long as she could remember.

So she'd trussed out _trivia_ of all things. Latched onto the historical name and had her mind helpfully skip back to a quieter night on the TARDIS, listening to Spaceman prattle on while she read a book, sprawled across their lap with their fingers idly toying with her hair. She’d just started _talking_ and hoping that she didn’t look too out of place and by the time that he’d redirected the class so that he could talk to her directly she’d felt like she was liable to start uncontrollably giggling just to get rid of some of the tension.

(Donna Noble, as it happened, was _not_ a giggler. Donna Noble gave full belly laughs, or didn’t laugh at all, because giggling was for people like _Nerys_ , and she absolutely refused to be a person like _Nerys_.)

It had been so much easier when it was just her and the Doctor in the TARDIS library, talking about nothing at all.

Mr. Smith had been… _kind_ enough, to be fair. He’d more or less saved her from looking mad by all but incorporating her commentary directly into his lesson, and then given her a chance to get back to familiar footing once she could articulate _why_ she was there in the first place.

And then she had almost dropped the papers anyway. Something she hadn’t done as a secretary since she was first hired on as a temp more than a decade ago in her personal timeline. She’d miscalculated his grip and nearly looked like a fool and his hand had been so _warm_ \--

_warm and familiar and it had only been two days, how could she miss them this much **already**?_

She tightened her hold on the papers she still held in her arms, shaking her head from left to right and trying to shake the thought away with the movement. She had to remember that Mr. Smith, despite wearing the same face, was _not_ her dumb Martian; she had no business twitching to grab hold of his hand like she always could with the Doctor. No matter how much she missed being able to.

She sure as hell wasn’t going to be a _creep_ just for the chance of a brush of skin against skin, unlike _some_ people.

 _Come on, Noble,_ she thought to herself. _Head in the game. You’re here to keep an eye on him and make sure he’s safe and happy, without drawing attention to yourself. You can cry into your pillow about missing them tonight, and as many nights as it takes to get through this. But while you’re awake, it’s go time._

She forced one more breath, bringing a hand up to clutch at the fob watch under her blouse for comfort, and lifted her head high again. She was Donna freaking Noble, and she could do whatever needed to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wren: *wants to borrow Tim’s best friend from the novel, spends 30 minutes researching Princely States in the British Raj because all we know is that his name is [Anand](https://tardis.fandom.com/wiki/Anand) and his father is a king*  
> Wren: *sets some arbitrary and some not-so-arbitrary parameters, ends up deciding on [Benares State*](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benares_State)  
> ...which is all to say that I gave a fictional late-in-life second son to [Prabhu Narayan Singh GCSI GCIE](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prabhu_Narayan_Singh). No offense is intended, as Anand is a great kid; if anyone who knows anything about this happens to read this, I welcome comments and corrections. The hyphen was used for no good reason except that I like hyphens in surnames.  
> (Inb4: Doctor Who has certainly done worse. XD)  
> While we're on the subject, we borrowed several character names as well, but then cheerfully built entirely new characters and genders on them, so if you're familiar with the book... well, expect some surprises? ♥


	5. it were an alms to hang him

From the _Journal of Impossible Things_

Sunday, 7 September 1913

Many scattered dreams over the course of the last two days; no coherent narrative. Perhaps my head is too occupied with the current world to have much room for ones beyond it at present? Even my dreams touch on it: in the trenches of a great and terrible war, covered with mud made by blood soaking earth, the boys of my assigned squad play football with goals marked by razor-wire, and laugh. A shadow falls across the entire world, cast by a comet that glows silver. It should be space rock, but it is a statue of a woman. She should be beautiful, but she brings only destruction. A false Christmas Star? There might be a story in that, but I am no prophet to be so certain the year was 1914.

[A sketch of a woman in ornate 17th-century garments, bearing a bow and arrow. The ornamentation of the clothing and the intricate curled hairstyle are finely detailed, but the face is crude and the eyes and mouth hollow holes, as if it is an empty mask.]  
Her name is Nemesis

~~The Faerie Queen~~ Miss Donna Noble is beautiful but confusing; every time I think I have taken her measure, an entirely new facet is shown to me. She passed the training grounds with Nurse Redfern as we held the first Officer’s Training Corps session of the year, and they lingered for a time overlooking the pad. I was inspecting Latimer’s work when I happened to look up, and caught sight of Miss Noble’s face; she seemed first troubled, then cross, and clutched at something at her breast before turning away. Nurse Redfern appeared to be attempting to say something to soothe her, but Miss Noble made no allowance to be soothed.

“It’s not right,” Latimer said beside me, but his model rifle was in perfect order, just as he’d been instructed.

[The handwriting here is untidy and more rounded than John's usual copperplate.]

The rest of the OTC passed without incident; my personal squad consists of my highest-form class, which should offer a chance to further observe some of the students I find most interesting. Merryweather, Baines, and Hutchinson are naturals, particularly Hutchinson; Baines is the sort to test his limits and kick over the traces whenever possible, but when Hutchinson speaks, he listens. Merryweather showed particular skill at the bayonet drills if perhaps a little too much enthusiasm, but such things can be tempered.

Latimer and Narayan-Singh keep very much to themselves, but attend properly and perform each of their duties with care. Perhaps I can encourage them to more closely coordinate with the rest of their squad, though I’m certain I was more like them than M, B, and H as a lad. I must try to remember how I got on.

Must be certain to keep M and B occupied, possibly by finding things for H to do; their attention tends to wander when left idle, most often towards N-S and L. A training ground is no place for boyish roughhousing.

~~The Queen~~ Miss Noble was quiet at dinner and breakfast, and spoke only to Nurse Redfern without prompting. She _did_ speak briefly to Headmaster Rocastle when addressed, but no more than necessary. My own conversation with Professor Challpner occupied most of dinner and well into after-dinner drinks; it was good to trot out my schoolboy Latin and discover it not so rusty after all, though Challpner found my pronunciation fascinating. Perhaps Miss Noble did as well; whenever I glanced in her direction, I tended to find her looking back, though her gaze would quickly shift back to Nurse Redfern whenever she noticed me looking. I thought at one point that I even saw a trace of an amused smile on her lips.

[A simple but lovely sketch of a woman’s face, smiling slightly. Her eyes crinkle a little with amusement.]  
Fleeting beauty must be preserved

Sunday morning was, of course, church, to which we all herded the boys and sat in the reserved pews. The walk down into town did at least allow the boys to work out some of their energy, which made supervising them during the sermon far less of a chore--which may have been the only reason I had any attention left available to me for the Reverend Goodacre or for Miss Noble, who found an entirely new puzzle to set us:

She attended as required, sat beside Nurse Redfern at the end of the pew, and did not move or speak until the congregation was dismissed. She was not obtrusive about it, nor rude. She only sat with her hands folded in her lap, eyes toward the Reverend, her expression one of calm, non-confrontational neutrality. If she had risen and knelt and sat with the rest of the congregation, I would have thought nothing about it.

Reverend Goodacre took a moment to introduce himself to me after services; I found him a pleasant, well-educated man, dedicated to his flock, and as high in his views as the parish allows him to be, but fortunately, I have no particular need of spiritual tending at the moment. 

[A much-smeared sketch appears in the margin beside this, all interlocked lines and circles, likely a doodle; it is preserved here for historical integrity.]

Y̵o̸u̴ ̸p̵o̸o̵r̵ ̴d̵e̸a̴r̷ ̵d̴e̶l̸u̷d̶e̴d̷ ̶i̵d̵i̶o̸t̵,̵ ̸R̵a̸s̸s̶i̶l̴o̴n̸ ̸a̴n̸d̸ ̷t̴h̴e̵ ̷O̶t̵h̴e̸r̸ ̷i̴f̴ ̵w̴e̴ ̴c̵o̶u̵l̸d̴ ̸a̷l̷w̶a̵y̴s̵ ̴b̸e̸ ̴t̵h̵i̵s̸ ̵b̴l̴i̶s̷s̶f̷u̷l̴!̷

He spoke to Miss Noble as well, and I will endeavor in the morning to recall what I overheard of their brief encounter before the Farringham congregation departed en masse, but as there is now an ink stain on my cheek, I think it best to retire.

[Monday, 8 September 1913’s page in the journal is missing. There is a ragged edge in the bookbinding, likely indicating that the entry was torn from the book either purposefully or on accident. The page which follows bears a sparse sketch of someone lain curled over a coffin, head in their arms.]  
Upon further consideration while considerably more awake, perhaps best not to linger over thoughts of what brief snatches I overheard of that conversation.

\--

“What’s _another_ argument at this point?” Donna sighed, as they got ready for bed that Sunday evening, sitting down at the vanity to start brushing out her hair and glancing over at Joan in the mirror with a steady look. They’d been talking off and on throughout the day, with Joan attempting to convince her to act out less and Donna arguing furiously that she had at least been more subtle about today's small act of rebellion than her outburst the first night at dinner. Nearly breaking a teacher’s wrist, no matter how much he deserved it, was extremely questionable. Why was quiet non-participation at church as much of a problem? “I’m going to end up causing plenty of them anyway, that’s just who I am. If someone wants to argue with me for sitting quietly then they can blow it out their rear ends, I’m not going to change.”

“Donna, really,” Joan chided, though her laughter rather undermined her scolding tones. “I appreciate your point, but we’re staff at a school. There are appearances to keep up.”

“Which I _did_.” Donna rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. “Showed up with the rest of you and left when you all did, didn’t I? More than I would’ve done, normally. Rocastle said I was required to attend church with the staff, and I attended, I just didn’t participate.”

“Well… at least sit _behind_ the boys rather than at the front?” Joan temporized. “We take up so many pews that if you sit behind them there isn’t anyone else behind us, and then anyone who notices you _ostentatiously not participating_ will be giving themselves away by craning to look.”

“Next Sunday I will _definitely do that_ , then,” Donna asserted, crossing her arms. “I didn’t realize I was allowed to sit anywhere else than _with the staff_ , you know.”

“No, I suppose nobody was terribly clear,” the nurse mused. “It’s fine, really, we _should_ be keeping an eye on the boys from both angles, and I’ll sit with you so that you’re breaking neither spirit nor letter of the law.”

“ _Besides,_ I wasn’t being _ostentatious_ about it,” Donna argued, “I was _literally_ sitting quietly, I didn’t interrupt the sermon, or make a point of _leaving_ , or anything like that.”

Joan squeezed her shoulder. “No, you were very polite. It’s only that when the entire pew is moving in unison, more or less, a person who doesn’t move at all makes a bit of a hole, and that draws attention, because most of the congregation is only pretending to listen and has nothing better to do than speculate and surmise. And it’s two whole new people in a small town, remember, and you the redhead. You’re eye-catching no matter what you do.” 

“Just because people are going to rumor-monger is no reason for me to change who I am,” Donna said, with a laughing sort of dignity. “They can think all they like, it won’t change my reasoning for interacting with _religion_ in the way I do. I explained all this to the vicar, in fact.”

“I’m sure he’s heard worse. What did he ask you to do, if he asked anything?”

“He didn’t. Just nodded and told me he understood, and that he’d be willing to listen if I wanted to talk.” Donna shrugs. “Really, though, I’ll make myself less apparent about it next week, that’s fine. I _honestly_ didn’t think it would be a problem so long as I didn’t make a scene about it.” 

Joan laughed. “No, I’m certain that if you wished to make a statement _everyone_ would hear it.”

“If I thought I could get away with not going in the first place, then I would’ve,” Donna admitted frankly. “Church and I don’t mix. Haven’t for years. To the point that my mum and granddad would get the picture that I didn’t want to talk about where I was if I told them I was in _church_.” She slowed her movements when her brush caught on a stubborn snag in her hair. Her voice softened. “I stopped going cold-turkey after da died.”

Joan took the brush away and began working through the tangle with her fingers. “Let me do that… but that’s the sort of thing that tests any faith, even if you have warning. Whatever resolution you come to is your business, not mine.”

“Nor anyone else’s.” Donna sighed, letting her eyes close and quietly leaning back into the hands in her hair. It had only been a few days, but even such a simple form of contact brought a sort of comfort that she couldn’t entirely name, soothed away a buzzing in her skin that _itched_ . She wasn’t sure how to articulate her gratitude that Joan was unhesitant enough to _touch_ despite only knowing her for less than a week. 

Joan worked on in comfortable silence, hunting out snarls until she was satisfied. She set the brush down, and for a moment Donna thought she’d have to move, but then the gentle hands were in her hair again. “Plait or crown?”

Donna’s eyes opened, and she looked through the mirror to take in the softer expression on Joan’s face. Her scalp tingled pleasantly where the fingers brushed at it. “Which can I sleep on without ruining it?” she asked softly in reply.

Her friend hummed thoughtfully. “Plait, then. It’ll come down easy in the morning and _then_ I can give you a crown in place of your chignon.”

Donna’s expression softened to match the gentle one on Joan’s face. “Am I that obvious?” she asked ruefully, trying and partially failing to resist the urge to lean into the hands in her hair.

Joan’s hands supported the weight easily; she’d clearly been expecting it. “A little… but it’s been a long time since I had anyone to be close with, Donna. Let me fuss?”

“I’m not complaining,” Donna sighed, with palpable relief, and let herself be moved. “Feels nice.”

“That’s the idea… and you do have lovely hair, the temptation was just too much to resist,” Joan admitted, and began the sort of plait Donna would have been more inclined to call a French braid. The gentle tug and pull of her hair in metronomic rhythm eased Donna into closing her eyes again.

“At least I can count on you not to see the worst in me when the world will only see me as a living argument,” she mused softly, “I’ll have to do something extra nice for you in return.”

Donna felt more than heard Joan’s amused little huff. “You’re not _that_ much of a puzzle, Donna, not in that way. As for ‘something nice,’ I almost tremble to think what you’ll come up with.” She worked on for a moment. “I think I’m looking forward to it.”

“So overtly romantic overtures are out, I suppose.” Donna teased softly. “Don’t want another Gentleman Jack fiasco.”

_That_ got a hiccup of laughter. “I’m very flattered, but yes, better to avoid that. I’m afraid I’ve never been that way inclined.”

“I figured,” Donna said softly, eyes opening. “Shame, really. For me at least.”

“Oh, for me too. You’d make me a very doting and attentive suitor, I’ve no doubt at all. But friends will do me quite nicely.”

“Probably for the best,” Donna gave one short, almost sad laugh, a hand creeping up to grip at the watch hanging around her neck again. “I’m good at just mates.”

“I think,” said Joan, tying off the plait, “that you must be good at anything you devote yourself to, however poor that may turn out for your well-being.”

For a moment, they shared soft smiles in the mirror, before Donna shifted and eased herself out of the seat. “Thank you, Joan,” she said quietly, turning and pulling the more slender woman into a hug. “For everything.”

Joan hugged her tightly. “You’re very welcome, my dear. Good night.”

“You too.”

\--

The school had settled into the quiet, everyday bustle of the first term. John had slightly more than a week of lectures under his belt now, and the shine still hadn’t worn off. He might, he fancied, even be managing to teach them something; certainly, he was learning a great deal himself. Not so much the history, though of course, he made certain to keep his knowledge sharp and even do a bit of research here and there, but about… well, life, he supposed. He’d never thought himself particularly old or wise, but the boys under his care were so painfully, beautifully young; fragile, and yet paradoxically resilient as they grew into themselves and tried to find their own limits. He wondered at them and despaired of them in equal measure, and wondered if his own teachers had felt the same way.

John locked up his classroom at the close of lectures on Wednesday the 10th and was musing on matters far more prosaic--would there be cake for tea?--when his pleasant mood was shattered by a strangled off, terrified shout. He dropped everything and ran for the stairs, cursing his position at the end of the hallway. If something had happened to one of the boys--!

“--It could _just as easily_ have been one of _your_ brains splattered all over the stairs!” screeched a towering cyclone, and it took John several precious, unfavorable instants to understand that the redheaded Banshee at the ground floor landing terrifying 

A̸̦͆n̷͓̹̓ ̸͎͊͗e̷͉͍͂n̵̰̙̔ō̸̪͖r̷̗͗͗m̴̝̿͜o̷̢͇̒̓ữ̸̬s̸̩̕ ̴̤̈́͒s̶̼͆p̴̙̱͂i̴̻̾d̶͓͈̎̎e̶̪̅ͅr̷̻̃

̷̧̈́̚Ȃ̸̝̠̈́n̵̖̕ ̸̪̟̈́̉e̸̦̝̓n̴̨͗t̷̰͐́i̶̺̜͋̀r̷̥̯͂ȩ̷̫̚ ̸̙̖̅a̷͉̓r̷̖̪̊͌m̸͚̌͋y̶͇̏͑

_̵͇͌D̵̖̔ẹ̵͂ã̶̬̈t̷̳̭̎̃h̴̼̩̀ ̸̘̋̀i̷͓̻̋͗t̶͉͎̅͋s̸̯͓̑e̵̙͑l̸͇̺̈f̴͚͖͗̕_

a little cluster of his students was, in fact, Miss Noble.

Merryweather and Hutchinson seemed to quail before the woman, despite having several inches of height on her, and Baines had taken a step back from his compatriots, eyes wide and face pale, staring at the red-headed whirlwind whose eyes were blazing brighter than twin stars, lips pulled back to bare teeth that seemed so much sharper than they ought.

_This woman can and has terrified Terrors,_ the thought swept through him like a mid-winter freeze, and then on its heels, swift as dry grass became a towering inferno and just as jarringly different in its extremes, came his own blazing rage, pushing back the fuzz at the edges of his vision. _Not my students. Not this time._

_“MISS NOBLE!”_ John roared, taking the steps two and three at a time from the first-floor landing and interposing himself between the madwoman and his students. Latimer was standing at her two o’clock, looking dazed; he took the boy’s arm and pulled him away as well. Had the boy winced at the grip on his arm, or at the volume? The woman herself was staring at him in surprise. 

John controlled his tone with an effort. It would be no help to his students to shout himself into a splitting headache. “Miss Noble,” he repeated, sternly. “Whatever has happened, there is no excuse for raising your voice and threatening students in our very corridors--” 

Her expression went dark and her brows furrowed, leveling a formidable glare on _him_ in response. “You think I’m _threatening_ them? Are you _daft_?” she demanded.

“‘Brains splattered all over the stairs’?” he shot back, refusing to quail. “ _Look_ at them!” He swept an arm in the direction of the still-dazed boys. “They’re still in shock!”

“They ought to be, then perhaps it’ll get through their thick skulls--!”

John spoke louder, refusing to let this continue. “They may be teenage boys, but they are _children,_ and you are a gentlewoman. There is no call for such crass behavior!”

She straightened, her shoulders snapping back and her chin raising in open defiance, the blaze in her eyes promising immediate retribution, “If you think I’m going to soften my words just to protect some schoolboys’ sensitive perceptions of the world, then you really _are_ daft. _Besides, you_ , sir, are more akin to an ostrich than I am to a gentlewoman. Hard-headed, stubborn, _refusing_ to listen even a moment, and as _bloody_ observant as one of the _bloody_ three blind mice!”

“Uh-- sir--” Hutchinson started, voice shaky, from behind him.

“Yes, Hutchinson?” John asked, not taking his eyes off Miss Noble.

“May we-- ah, may we be dismissed, sir?”

Better to have them out of the way. “Yes, go.” 

“But sir--” Latimer started.

“Shut _up,_ runt,” Merryweather hissed. “Do _you_ want to get your head shot off in the crossfire?”

Miss Noble’s hackles visibly raised, “Did _nothing I just said_ get through to you--?!”

“Gentlemen, you are _dismissed,_ ” John cut her off again. “Latimer, report to the matron’s office.” The boy was rubbing his arm, and from the angles upon which he had come upon the group, it could only have been from Miss Noble’s hand. 

“But _sir--_ ”

“ _Dismissed,_ ” John repeated more sharply.

Latimer visibly hesitated, with a hand still resting against his upper arm, looking afraid and shifting his eyes between Miss Noble and John himself, biting at his lower lip.

“Just go,” Miss Noble grit out between her teeth, her eyes locked on John’s. Latimer reluctantly snapped into quick attention before turning and following the other three boys’ example of a tactical retreat, at least as far as disappearing around a corner.

Silence rang in the empty corridors; everyone else had hurried off to tea, and John was grateful for that. “Miss Noble. Those boys were terrified of _you._ Baines and Merryweather have a foot on you at least.”

“ _You_ are operating under very limited information of the incident, sir.” She shot back, very clearly containing the blaze of her own rage by the skin of her bared teeth. It was a far cry from the banshee roar he had come upon before, though no less terrifying in its own right.

John had to respect that control, but a woman who could chain such a temper could do _anything._ “Pray, enlighten me.”

“They have _zero_ fear of consequence,” she started, through gritted teeth. “They are being taught to end lives and think nothing of _which_ lives they very nearly _end_ . If they have no respect of death as a consequence of their actions then they will inevitably end up getting _themselves_ killed. If they were terrified of _me_ for putting that _right in their faces_ then so be it, _at least they end up seeing it_.”

John’s temper, hardly well banked as it was, roared up again. “This was all some sort of twisted _lesson_ to you!?”

“Would you rather they learn it by _actually breaking their heads open on the stairs?!_ ” She yelled back, throwing her arms out to the sides as if to say ‘what else would you have from me?!’

_B̷u̴t̷ ̶a̴n̴ ̵a̶x̶e̴ ̶i̸s̷ ̴a̴n̴ ̷a̴x̴e̷!̷_

There was a roaring in his ears, or possibly in his head. He could hardly see her for the static, but he couldn’t show weakness. Not now. “You engineered this? This is a school, not Sparta! The children don’t have to be put in actual peril to learn valiance in battle!”

“I’m not bloody trying to--” She spluttered, “You’re not _listening_ \--” and now she threw up her hands, “Do you _honestly_ think I’d hurt any of them?!”

“You _already did!_ ” The hell with his headache, he had to make her see. “Latimer has bruises from your grip!”

“He’s bloody well lucky that bruises are all he’s got!”

“Oh, so your little experiment could have gone _worse?”_ he snapped. “If this is your idea of care, it’s just as well for any child you _might_ have had that your temper and behavior keeps you still unwed!”

She reeled back a step, as surely as if he had physically _struck_ her, and all at once the fire gusted from her eyes into frigid steel, honed and sharp. Her jaw clenched, biting down on the jugulars of any words that might have surged out at him before his comment and killing them before they could form. Her nostrils flared like she suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Visibly shaking, she straightened again, lifting her chin in wounded dignity. The light caught on her eyes; were they shinier than before?

“Very well,” she said, voice soft and icily polite. “Your point is made; I will remove myself from all future situations regarding the students. Good _day_ , sir.”

And without further word, she turned on her heel and brushed past him, storming away.

The adrenaline died away, leaving him to stare after her in the silence and trembling exhaustion that comes after the most terrifying exertion, and with no more answers than he had had when he began.

\--

John took himself and his headache up to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes for Screenreaders: The first image of the Doctor's handwriting says "He was looking me straight in the face, poor little devil, we're so hard on seers."  
> The second says "I didn't."  
> The third says: "Poor Donna. Anyone who hates Christmas that much must have so many issues with religion. Must spoil her with particular devotion after this."  
> The fourth image is a circular Gallifreyan mock-up of "You poor, dear, deluded idiot, Rassilon and the Other if we could always be this blissful!"
> 
> The Reverend Simon Goodacre has been lifted wholesale from the pages of Dorothy L. Sayers’ _Busman’s Honeymoon_ , because Wren adores him and otherwise knows very little about the Church of England. Bonus points if you can spot the quote!  
> The Circular Gallifreyan was created with the Gallifreyan Translator [here.](https://adrian17.github.io/Gallifreyan/)
> 
> So half of chapter six is written  
> (bc Wren felt terrible leaving without writing some of the fix)  
> so consider that before killing us anyway <3
> 
> Stay tuned for ‘the practice of it lives in John the Bastard’


	6. the practice of it lives in John the Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes one sees clearer through reflections than through their own eyes.

It didn’t take much for Joan to realize that something was very, very wrong.

To start with, Donna had swept into the infirmary halfway through tea time, right after Joan had sent Mr. Latimer off to get his own. She’d put down a tray of tea things with enough force to rattle the china, thrown herself into one of the chairs by the window, and scowled out at the weak September sunlight as though daring it to burn away under the strength of her own simmering, fiery dissatisfaction.

But instead of explaining, she had only burned a hole through the glass until the bell rang without saying a word, and then taken the tea things and left again. Joan had pursed her lips through the encounter and decided that Donna would speak up when she was ready.

When the redhead hadn’t come down to dinner, she knew it was going to take a more heavy handed approach to get her to speak up.

(She noted absently that evening that Mr. Smith also hadn’t been able to attend dinner, but she knew better that Donna had _refused_ to attend.)

By the time she had returned up the three flights of stairs to their shared room, Donna was already dressed down into her nightgown and wrapped up in a dressing gown, glaring at her reflection in the mirror and ripping at her hair ruthlessly with the brush. Her lips were pursed so tightly that they seemed to be trembling under the strain.

Worse than she’d thought, then-- _far_ worse. Donna hadn’t even noticed her coming in.

The wood of the hairbrush handle was even straining under her grip, and the bristles were a mess of red strands that had been pulled free under the violence of her strokes. She barely even seemed to notice, just… continued to brush long after she needed to.

Joan stilled Donna’s hands by force. “ _Stop that_ before you do yourself a harm.” Multiple ones, more like. “Even if you don’t care about damaging your hair, you’ll give yourself splinters at this rate.”

With her hands actually around Donna’s, she could feel just how badly the redhead was trembling. The grip around the brush was as tight as it was to slow it, it seemed -- once the energy had nowhere else to go, the trembling increased sevenfold.

“I’m _fine_.” Donna all but snarled, pulling at her hands to try and get them back, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do me the courtesy of not lying to my face,” Joan snapped. “You are anything _but_ fine, you have not been ‘fine’ since teatime at least, and you cannot ask me to leave you like this.” She tightened her grip on Donna’s hands and leaned forward, turning the restraint into an embrace from behind. “It won’t leave this room, Donna, _let it go.”_

Donna strained against her for a brief moment, drawing her legs up tightly to her chest and trying to squirm free, a choked off noise beginning to burn its way out from the back of her throat until she finally shoved her face into her knees, bit down on the fabric of her nightgown there, and muffled her own scream of frustration. It morphed midway, and Joan felt the burning tracks of tears between their cheeks, until the shaking had transitioned from Donna’s hands to throughout her body, wreaking havoc upon her entire system with energy that had had nowhere else to go.

Joan held her through the wracking sobs as she had held her through her rage, whispering soothing nonsense and making promises both of them knew there was little chance she could keep, _it’s all right, you’ll be alright,_ and some that she could, _I’ve got you, just breathe, I’m here, you’re not alone, I won’t leave._

Eventually, the muffled screeching and the sobs slowed away again, leaving a quiet, trembling, burned out shell where a wildfire had raged moments before. Donna kept her head against her knees, her hands wrapped tightly around the fabric hem of her nightgown until it strained under her pull.

Joan gently worked her fingers open. “There, now, don’t strain it,” she chided, and rubbed at Donna’s hands soothingly. “There’s no need to huddle like this when your bed’s right there, come and rest before you give yourself a cramp.”

She managed to gently pull Donna along until both of them were comfortably sat on Donna’s bed, with Joan sitting behind her and rubbing small circles into the curve of her spine. Donna let herself be moved rather like a marionette, not seeming to have the energy to fight back any longer.

Joan worked her way up, slowly, and began running her fingers through Donna’s hair, gently coaxing out the snarls and tangles that the frenzied brushing had done more to create than smooth. “One too many burdens, I suppose,” she mused aloud. “Can I help you bear this one?”

“I hate this.” Donna mumbled back in response. She sounded utterly toneless. “I hate feeling like this.”

“Whatever it was, it must have been terrible to hurt you so badly, and thus your response is entirely reasonable,” Joan pointed out, picking out another knot. “Particularly on top of everything else that’s happened to you lately.”

“I _hate him_.” she whined, almost as though she couldn’t understand the words coming from her own mouth. She curled forward into her knees again, hiccuping, and scrubbed at her face. “ ‘m not supposed to hate him.”

It took Joan several seconds to comprehend this. “Hate? Hate who--?” Protectiveness flared. “Someone _said_ something to you?” Something that hurt her _this badly?_ “Was it that cad Moffat again? If he hurt you--”

“No.” Donna mumbled the negative into her knees, shaking her head. “Not Moffat. Smith.”

Joan had to force her hands not to tighten in Donna’s hair. “ _Smith?_ The new History professor? But--he’s always been such a gentleman.” And so handsome, she mourned internally, but Donna was too distressed for anything but the most terrible of insults. “What on _Earth_ did he say to you?” _And how shall I punish him for it?_

\--

> _When they next wake, all this derision_
> 
> _Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision_

( _A Midsummer Night’s Dream,_ Act III, scene ii)

John woke to find that he’d slept through tea, his office hours, dinner, and indeed most of the night.

For given values of ‘sleep,’ anyway; his dreams had been a muddled haze of blood and death and impossible warfare, where children sprang from little boxes fully-grown in body but not in mind, and trotted off to die in showers of light from devilish pepperpots without ever knowing sunlight or play or the touch of a loving hand, without even knowing the reason they died, and the unyielding statues they were meant to call parents scraped them up and put them back in the boxes, to be grown all over again, _and he had commanded them into battle_.

He knew all their faces: each and every boy in Farringham School, and all the children at church, and faces he shouldn’t know but that he did, faces he could never forget even with his heart torn out. He’d sat up until dawn writing all the names, in more languages than he knew he knew and some he’d made up besides. It blackened the pages he wrote them on, so many were their numbers.

One other name appeared, in so many roles and so many ways: Donna Noble. She’d been a monster, a victim, a general, a saint; once he’d found her wired into a half-smashed pepperpot, when all the others had contained only a vaguely-organic goo. Even the statues held that goo, and she’d been everything but one of the statues.

He didn’t know what to think about that.

He didn’t know what to think about much of anything, but the maid was tapping at his door and he had ink to get off his fingers and breakfast to eat and classes to teach and office hours to make up for and there was no time for thinking anyway.

Luncheon was quiet. John sat at his usual place near one end of the table; when Miss Noble came in with Nurse Redfern, they immediately headed for the far end, never once glancing in his direction.

John didn’t know what to feel about that, either. And he’d been so _sure…_

He threw himself into the rest of his lectures and took tea in his office, the better to give any of the boys a little extra time for the sake of his missed office hours, and thanked everything that one of the maids had spotted him on his way up to his rooms and volunteered to inform the Headmaster that he was ill.

(She’d found him standing in the empty corridor, staring at nothing, and had to touch his arm to bring him out of it.)

That working through tea let him avoid all possibility of seeing anyone older than twenty until dinner was neither here nor there.

He’d been just coming to hope--or perhaps that was dread--that nobody would be coming anyway when there was a tap on the door.

John leapt to answer it, though he took care to actually _open_ the door with some dignity. Must have been hope after all. “Latimer, come in. How’s the arm?”

Tim Latimer’s jaw worked as he ducked into the room, and he lowered his gaze to the floor when he answered: “Fine sir, mostly just some bruising. Bit stiff, it-- um. Was briefly dislocated, but Nurse Redfern put it back to rights.”

“But minor enough to avoid a sling, I’m glad to see.” John ushered the boy to one of the chairs in front of his desk, and took the other one. Latimer was one of, and likely _the,_ best in his class; this was more likely to be a personal question than an academic one. “Have a seat.”

Latimer did as he was directed, slipping into the chair across the desk from him, looking anywhere but at him as though it pained him to look at John at all. “I, erm,” he started, “I tried your office hours yesterday, sir, but you weren’t in.”

John grimaced. “Yes, I’m afraid I took ill rather suddenly after that little incident. Apologies for missing you… and that you lot had to witness it at all.”

“It’s-- ah.” Latimer fidgeted, “I actually-- I’m here about that, sir. About what happened, with Miss Noble.”

Of course he was; Latimer was a sensitive boy, and he’d been rather intent about saying something yesterday, which … which John had dismissed completely, damn him. “I see.” Still having no idea how to feel about any of it, he schooled his face to calm neutrality and offered an open hand: _go on._

Another brief fidget, with Latimer folding his hands in his lap so tightly that his knuckles went white, clearly weighing his words and trying to decide how to begin. After a moment, though, he blurted out with little to no grace: “I owe her my _life,_ sir.”

John went very still. A boy like Latimer was generally no good at dissembling, and the more facile his words the more suspect. To merely blurt this out, so nervously, to a _teacher…_ A thousand wrong notes suddenly altered, leaving a much clearer idea of possibilities. “Go on.”

“My arm--” Latimer stammered, “She-- she caught me, sir, not-- I mean, she _did_ , grab me, but-- because I was falling. Would’ve fallen, I mean.”

Many of those possibilities narrowed down. None of the rest were to John’s liking, and all of them said he was an idiot.

“She was telling off the others after, sir,” Latimer added, biting his lip. “She-- she told them it could’ve, well, what you _heard_ , sir, because it nearly--” and at this point his eyes snapped back down to his thumbs, twisting around one another in clear, shivery panic -- a boy placed face to face with the possibility of his own death and only spared by circumstance.

“--’splattered your brains all over the stairs,’” John quoted, a little numbly.

“We were near the edge of the first landing,” Latimer nodded downward, “Merryweather and Baines had me bracketed, sir, on either side, I was trying to get past to get down to tea. Hutchinson-- I’m sure he was joking, said ‘be careful, don’t trip him’ in that-- that tone of voice, like…” he shivered again. _Like he didn’t actually care either way,_ floated unsaid on the end of the sentence.

He closed his eyes tightly, “And, well, erm. One of them _did_. Caught my ankle with his, right when they both let go. I--” he stammered, finally looking up and meeting John’s gaze with his own eyes big and plaintive and _scared_. “If she hadn’t caught me by the arm, sir, if she hadn’t been right _there_ at that moment, I would’ve gone down the entire flight.”

Latimer was risking _so much_ in giving even this much detail, John knew. The code against tell-tales was ironclad; even if John had listened to Miss Noble, perhaps even if he had been himself a witness and the boys expelled, Latimer would never be safe in the dorms again. Some other ‘joke’ would go too far, and be conveniently without any witness at all, and that would be that. Neatly avoiding just which of the other boys had tripped him wasn’t much better, and Latimer hadn’t survived to seventeen not to know this. And yet--here he was, desperate that John knew that Miss Noble had been the protector, teaching the right lesson at the right time if only John hadn’t taken the wrong end of the stick and gone mad with it.

Yes, the Faerie Queen was beautiful and terrible… but most of the Fair Folk were also protective of children, punishers of the wicked, and if John was going to let his flights of fancy drive him couldn’t he have _remembered that?_

But Latimer still needed an answer, or at least to know that John was listening. “It’s that important to you that I know the truth, even though we both know nothing can come of it?”

They both knew what would happen if anyone found out that Latimer had told him. The shiver that ran down the boy’s spine spoke to that much. He ducked his head again, grimacing. “I can’t just-- owe her a life debt and do _nothing_ , sir.” he managed, voice pained. “I can’t do anything _about_ it but I can’t just _leave it be_.”

“Then tell me the whole of what she said,” John offered. “I only heard the end of it, and ruined the lesson besides.”

Latimer swallowed, before nodding. “She ordered us downstairs to the ground floor first,” he said shakily. “I think to prevent any possibility of anything else happening. Then she-- she asked them if they had any idea what they would have done in pushing me down the stairs. Said it was obvious they had no concept in their brains that I could’ve _died_ because falling down the stairs could _do_ that, could crack open skulls if you hit wrong. And she said, quote: ‘Wouldn't be surprised if you tied a noose around his neck, and were shocked when his neck snapped’.” he fidgeted a bit more with his hands, “I remember that bit word for word, because it was so… vehement. She sounded so angry for _my sake_. Then she said I could’ve and would’ve been justified in defending myself, that I-- that I could’ve grabbed onto one of them or pushed _myself_ to get back upright, and…well…” he bit his lip. “The rest you heard, ‘could’ve just as easily been one of your brains splattered all over the stairs’. ”

John could just imagine it all, could hear every word just as Miss Noble might have said it.

_How many of those terrors were first terrorizing, to earn her wrath?_ He wondered, and felt Certain, in the way that had so ruined things yesterday, that the answer was _all of them._

Well. That was instinct for you, and why Humans were supposed to have _reason._ Headaches were no excuse.

“And then I blundered in, failed to inquire into the matter, and made a perfect Guy of myself,” John sighed. “Thank you, Latimer, I needed to know that. You’re a better man than I.”

“She didn’t show up to dinner last night, sir.” Latimer admitted, “I thought--” he cut himself off, before gritting out anyway: “I thought your argument must have gone badly.”

John gave him a smile as thin and sickly as he felt. “‘Badly’ rather understates the case, yes.” He remembered the way she’d flinched, and had even greater misgivings. “Perhaps worse than I think.”

Latimer levelled his gaze on John’s own, and for a moment his eyes were much, much older than barely-seventeen could account for. “She’s hurting so much,” he whispered, looking lost. “And she’s shouldering it all alone.”

And he was right, John _knew_ he was right, but how he could know it--

(s t a t i c in his ears)

\--but no, Latimer was simply terribly perceptive and had seen too much. It happened sometimes.

“Then we’ll look out for her,” John promised. “Of course, I’ll have to start with an apology.”

Latimer took a deep breath, closing his eyes and ducking his head again. “I--” he started, looking pained. “I can’t do anything else, sir.”

And it was true; he’d done more than he ought to have for self-preservation’s sake just coming here, let alone telling John anything.

“You’ve already gone above and beyond, Latimer, leave it at that,” John assured him, standing. “Now, for verisimilitude, as I doubt very much you have any need for _academic_ advice…” He went to his library and rummaged for a moment. He was sure he’d put it--ah, here. “I told you to come and borrow this.” He held out a biography of Thomas Cromwell. “You can tell them I’ll have a report of you later, if anyone asks, which I shall of course not actually require.”

Tim took the book carefully, making sure that he didn’t brush fingers with John in the pass, and brought it to his chest. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he said softly, “I leave the rest to you then, sir.”

\--

“ _Salvē_ , Smith,” Challpner greeted him in Latin as John took his place beside him at dinner. It had become a habit of theirs to converse like this, and John usually rather enjoyed it, but tonight it simply felt like another distraction to cling to as opposed to a constant awareness of the two ladies at the distant end of the table, with their heads ducked close to one another and a tense sort of disarray hovering about Miss Noble. “[The gods not smiling on you today?]”

“[Not as such since last afternoon,]” John sighed back, also in Latin, “[But I suppose I’ve earned it.]”

“[I don’t doubt it, from the cold shoulder the ladies are giving you. What in thunder’s name did you do to--]” Challpner hesitated a moment before correcting himself to “[--the redheaded lady? She’s been withdrawn since she arrived, but you both skipped dinner last night, and today she looks positively wretched.]”

John carefully didn’t glance toward the other end of the table. “[Thank you for not using her name.]”

“[I was hardly going to draw attention to her,]” the other man sniffed. “[Speak your truth.]”

John hesitated, and was saved for a moment by Rocastle calling them all to order. Sadly, even the longest grace eventually ended.

“[I badly misinterpreted a situation and made it worse by some rather unjust personal remarks which I’m going to have to find some way to grovel for,]” he admitted, and helped himself to … something or other. It hardly mattered when he had no appetite to speak of.

Challpner rolled his eyes. “[Talented of you. I suppose you were bound to either trip over your tongue or swallow your foot the way you keep staring at her.]”

“[I don’t--]”

“[I’ll thank you not to insult my intelligence,]” the Latin professor said briskly. “[Whatever you plan to do to apologize, make it abject, and do it _quickly,_ before Asclepius’ handmaiden feeds you to the dogs.]”

John gave in and cut a quick look at the end of the table--just in time to catch Nurse Redfern’s eye. The look she gave him should have set his hair on fire. “[Too late, I think,]” he muttered.

“[Then take your punishment like a man.]”

“[ _That_ was never in doubt,]” John said, nettled.

“[We’ll see,]” said Challpner, and changed the subject. John was all too glad to let him, and dinner wore on.

He’d had some hope to escape to his rooms at the end of it, but his path was blocked by a small blonde figure. “Mister Smith,” said the matron, icily polite.

“Nurse Redfern. How may I assist you?”

“You failed to report to me when you took ill,” the nurse returned. “You may assist me by coming to the infirmary for an examination.”

Ah, a private hiding. How kind of her. “Of course. Now?”

“Yes.”

He followed her dutifully down the corridor, around the corner, and into the infirmary, and sat where he was bade.

She shut the door, and silence reigned for a moment.

“Nurse Redfern,” he began. “I’ve had it explained what really happened, and I need to tender Miss Noble an apology--”

“Yes, I rather think you do.” Her voice was cold. “But I highly doubt you understand exactly how deeply your failure runs, Mr. Smith. Please, do claim exactly what wrong you intend to apologize for.”

John had the sudden acute sense that he was on a tightrope over an abyss. Clearly this was _so much worse_ than he had really imagined. “I misread the situation, drastically mistook Miss Noble’s character, and made thoroughly ungentlemanly remarks of an unnecessarily personal nature for which I had no grounds whatsoever and which were no business of mine or anyone’s.”

“ _Only_ ungentlemanly?” Nurse Redfern asked, “Is that the only adjective you’d assign to the insult you paid her?”

“Madam, if I described them as I _truly_ think of them I would be committing another error by saying them in front of you.”

“You need not hesitate, I’m already aware of _what_ you said.” Nurse Redfern’s expression was entirely unforgiving. “I’m _curious_ how you’d _describe_ the impact you had,” she said, with a tone of voice on ‘curious’ that made it quite clear that the emotion she was courting was more akin to warning.

John hesitated. “...I think that it would have been kinder to strike her.”

“Oh?” Nurse Redfern asked, voice raising a note in derision, “And what gave you that impression, her reaction or your choice of words themselves?”

“Her reaction,” John admitted, “But… they were unjust and careless, now that I think on it, and I wouldn’t’ve dreamed of saying them to any woman, except that I did. I have no excuse.”

“Ah, but there’s the rub, isn’t there?” Nurse Redfern was still staring him down. “You didn’t say them to just any woman. Had you said it to me, I would have slapped you then and there and taken you to task, because they _were_ unjust and careless. An unwed woman can be many things, from a spinster to a widow to unlucky in love to simply someone who has no wish to be married.”

The abyss yawned wider. “...I struck at an old wound?”

“You _tore open_ a _series_ of old wounds.” Nurse Redfern crossed her arms. “Not the least of which being a widowing _on_ her wedding day.”

“I see,” he said numbly. There was no tightrope; John belonged in deeper depths than could ever be plumbed. Not even Satan would bother to chew on him. “I wounded her soul.”

“It would _not_ have been kinder to strike her,” Nurse Redfern said, voice chilled. “It would have been _kinder_ to slip a _knife_ between her ribs.”

“Clearly.” John raked his hands through his hair. “...Nurse Redfern, I have no right to ask anything of you or of Miss Noble, but I have no other recourse. When it pleases her, I would like to meet in a public place to tender my most humble apologies. She may pick wherever she likes, but I humbly suggest directly after church.” Nearly everyone in town would be there, plus the entire population of the school; they couldn’t get more public without going to a city.

“Oh, _if_ she cedes to your request, I don’t think you’ll be tendering humble apologies, Mister Smith.” Nurse Redfern said, opening the door and gesturing out. “You’ll be dealing to yourself as much humiliation as you dealt to her, at the _very_ least.”

There was no real answer for this, so John bowed and made his retreat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asclepius should properly be Vejovis per Wren’s research, but she went with the name more people were likely to know so’s not to interrupt the story with explanations.  
>  ~~Tiny Wren: bitch i don’t know him fite me~~


	7. i would eat his heart in the marketplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is on an emotional roller-coaster.
> 
> Donna is just Tired.
> 
> Farringham-on-Llangorse has front-row seats to a soap opera, 17 years early.

Friday dawned a bit grey and dreary, but the fog lifted off of the hills by noon, and after classes most of the boys took to the school courtyard to soak up the sun during tea time. Many of them had dragged out their bookbags and spread out in small clusters, working on their assigned evening work in the crisp, cool fall air. Others were simply sprawled out, having taken off their shoes and tied together sock balls to toss amongst them while they talked, because getting up and raiding the supplies closet or their dorms for cricket balls was too much work. In total, the entire courtyard had a languorous sense about it, relaxing in the midafternoon sun.

Donna carried a ring binder and a small stack of papers with her when she left the building and stepped out into the courtyard, a sleek looking fountain pen tucked behind her ear rather than in her breast pocket -- and though she had been much more put together this morning than she had been the previous day, the sight of her did still send a brief stillness through the courtyard as the boys noticed her. She kept her chin held high and her eyes forward, striding through the groups to find a quiet spot on the low wall that approached the front gate. As though she didn’t have a care in the world, she settled her skirts and sat there, binder in her lap, pen untucked from her ear, and began working in the sunlight just the same as any of the groups of boys around her.

After a moment or two the wary stillness slipped away again, as the boys realized she wasn’t a land mine about to explode.

Donna let out a very subtle breath of relief once the overall tension slipped away again, fiddling gently with the button on the side of the pen without pressing it down. At least some things were dependable; even if she was as good as an enemy soldier invading an area designated as ‘for the boys’, she was armed.

Well. In a sense, at least.

She continued working at a more sedate pace than most of the other groups around her, one ankle tucked easily behind the other and the binder on her lap as a portable flat surface. About ten minutes later, when she was fully settled into the work, she heard the crunch of feet entering the ten foot radius that she seemed to have naturally generated around her, and glanced upward to see Tim Latimer and his darker skinned friend whom she had seen with him but not had the chance to interact with yet, fidgeting just at the edge of the radius. She offered a faint, uncertain smile of her own and gestured with the pen in a ‘go ahead’ fashion, and Tim visibly _sagged_ in relief, smiling up at her and pulling his friend another few feet in until they could settle a comfortable few feet away from her.

They pulled out their books and started working, chatting between themselves, and Donna returned her attention to the papers she was notating in careful shorthand, a small smile forming on her face now.

\--

She was smiling.

The sun was bright in the courtyard, shining on her hair and the grass and the stone and the boys at her feet, casting the arcade into shadow, and she was smiling.

John didn’t mean to stare, hadn’t even known they were out there; he’d just been on his way to the gates, to pick up a text being held for him at the booksellers’, and he’d turned the corner and there they were.

They were at a little remove from the rest, Miss Noble at her ease on the wall and Latimer and Narayan-Singh only a few feet away, and for a moment John could see nothing but the Queen’s court at their leisure. The merry-making boys were the courtiers, lolling at ease, and in their own favored spot were the Queen and her pages (her changelings, her foster-sons). Latimer held up his book for her perusal and she leaned to consider it, nodded, and said something that set all three of them laughing--but there, there was the considering look as her point settled in. Narayan-Singh offered an opinion, and Miss Noble’s smile was so proud it struck John to the quick, and if the universe would be so kind as to _stop rubbing it in_ John would be very grateful, thank you, he had well and truly gotten the point.

_Last_ Friday he could have walked out there, joined them on the wall and in the discussion; that moment of collaboration during his lecture had been impromptu but wonderful. He could have seen if they could manage something similar on purpose, if they could improvise so well on any subject, draw out two of his most insightful students in active debate instead of leaving them to hide from their classmates in essays only he ever saw.

Last Friday, he could have. Today--

She would leave, and he couldn’t blame her.

Had it really only been Wednesday afternoon when he so aggressively ate his own foot as to choke on a thigh? Was it really Friday? Could he even survive two more days of this? Miss Noble had made no reply as yet, but his request to the Matron had only been last night. Hadn’t it?

_Obviously the waiting is part of your punishment, idiot boy._

Assuming, of course, that he wasn’t simply being full of himself and Miss Noble had better things to think of than giving a reckless dolt consequence.

A reckless, unobservant, self-aggrandizing dolt who was _standing in the shadows staring at her,_ and he’d better carry on with his _own_ work before he added stalking and obsession to his list of sins.

_T̴̬̽̍ŏ̸̭̳ǫ̷̀̂ ̶̠̙͗̈l̴̝a̴̞̓t̷͉͆e̸̫.̵͔̐͝_

Dreams meant nothing, conjecture meant nothing, he had only known her for a week. A week! There was no call to go fancying _anyone_ in a week, love at first sight was a fantasy, and if he was in _love_ then what the hell had Wednesday been about?

John turned on his heel and left them to it. The bookseller would keep. His own heartache would not.

Or was it self-loathing?

‘And,’ perhaps. ‘And’ was always an option.

_Idiot, idiot, idiot..._

\--

Saturday was, if possible, worse for the waiting, if only because he _did_ have a brief encounter with Miss Noble on the stairwell, when she was walking down to her own work and he to breakfast. She had paused and considered him for a moment, and the worst part had been that there _hadn’t_ been that outright steely judgement in her eyes. She had just _looked_ at him, before turning and continuing on her way without a word, and John couldn’t tell if it was a curse on his soul being so dismissed, or a blessing that she hadn’t struck back further.

She kept to herself that day, lingering only with Nurse Redfern. He did his best not to fidget his way through every time he had to be in the same room.

By the time that a maid brought him a note to his door that evening, the concept of publicly humiliating himself was almost a relief, because at least it meant he could _try._

At church, Miss Noble and Nurse Redfern took seats in the back of their section of seats rather than up front with the rest of the staff, but other than a quick questioning look from Rocastle, this wasn’t commented upon. John was really just as grateful to be physically incapable of staring; he wasn't certain he could have managed otherwise.

He certainly wasn't capable of keeping his mind on the sermon: he had to reserve that energy to not fidget.

Service ended all too soon, and yet not nearly soon enough. Nurse Redfern and Miss Noble were at least good enough to keep their word, lingering to speak with Mrs. Goodacre in the churchyard. The crowd was milling, not yet ready to leave conversations.

Now or never.

John stepped forward, "Miss Noble. Might I beg a moment of your time?"

Perhaps it was his demeanor, already with his hat in his hand, but the conversation between the three ladies stopped at once, as did a few others nearby. Nurse Redfern put a hand gently against Miss Noble’s back, just under one of her shoulder blades, and Miss Noble took a breath before turning to look at him, that same odd, weighing neutrality to her expression as had been there on the stairwell the day before.

“You may.”

John took a deep breath of his own, and bowed low, holding the position for several seconds. More conversations stopped.

Everyone was staring.

_Good._

He straightened. "Miss Noble, I repent entirely of my words and actions this Wednesday past. My judgement was wanting, my evidence scanty and unexamined, and my remarks unthinkable, unjustified, unsupportable, and thoroughly unbecoming of a dust louse, let alone anyone who might think to call themselves a gentleman. I apologize in every respect and hope to be allowed to make restitution." He bowed again.

Immediately, the silence around them was broken in whispers. John could feel them like insects crawling across every inch of skin, but didn’t dare straighten out of his second bow yet. His heart was hammering in his ears.

For a torturous several seconds, Miss Noble made no reply. He could just barely see her hands flexing in her skirts from this angle.

“Stand up, Mr. Smith,” she finally said, voice nowhere near enough of a volume that ought to cut through the growing cacophony of whispers around them, and yet it did -- the silence swept through again as though she had shouted everyone down, while she maintained a comfortable speaking tone.

He stood to attention and tried not to hold his breath. It didn’t work.

She was every bit as regal and as terrifying in that moment as a Faerie Queen ought to be, shoulders back, chin level with the ground, hands folded in front of herself in perfect composure. Nurse Redfern pulled her hand back away from her, stepping back until it was only Donna Noble, staring him down and weighing his soul with her eyes.

Sod _himself_ not holding his breath -- the entire _crowd_ seemed to be doing so.

“Your apology is accepted,” she started, lifting her chin just that one tiny centimeter more in fortitude, “but your actions are _not_ forgiven.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgement of her point--and more importantly, acceptance of her judgement. “How can I redeem myself?”

Her hands flexed briefly. The knuckles went white.

“Your choices dug you this hole, your choices will dig you out. You can choose to make of me a combatant and I will fight just as fiercely as any other. Or you can choose to make of me an equal, worthy of at the very least the respect that entails.” She took another deep breath. “For what it’s worth, I don’t _want_ to be your enemy.”

“Nor do I,” John said fervently. Four days was enough and _more_ than enough. He debated pointing out that he’d never have fought so fiercely anyone he _didn’t_ consider an equal or greater, but decided that was a bad idea on many, many levels. “You deserve only respect.”

“Respect without compassion is fear,” she replied, eyes briefly flashing. “And if you fear me you will not see me as an equal no matter what I do.”

_Fear and adore--_ bad idea, BAD idea, don’t even finish the thought. “As justice becomes cruel without mercy,” he agreed instead, mind scrambling. _I only ever want to be good to you._ Not that one either.

Ĥ̴̩̤̤̌ă̷͚̠̮͖̆̆p̴͇̘̖͗ṗ̴̢͖̝̟̔͝y̷̻͎̾̄ ̶̪̦̇m̴̨͔̗̅̓̏ͅë̵̹̥͉͇̄d̵͇͕̖̀͛i̶̞̦͗ȕ̶̡̲̓͝m̴̠̆ș̷͈́̕͘͘,̴̛̱̩́͂̇ͅ ̸̭̔̽͜į̷̻͖̣̓̐d̴͖̠̆i̶̼͐̏̆̎ȯ̸̩͆̃t̵͔͎͗͐ ̷̗͂͜͠ͅb̷̧̯͑̍̌o̴̪̬̥̙ỷ̴̭̘̎͜!.̷̙͇͂̀̚

“Might I seek to earn your friendship?” he hoped.

She gave him that weighing look again, but for the first time he felt almost as though he hadn’t been found entirely wanting. There was a quiet sort of soft tiredness in her eyes, now that he looked. She seemed… emotionally _drained_.

He wanted to carry her off to some quiet den, wrap her up in a blanket and sing her to sleep.

(He’d give himself points for novelty, at least.)

After a moment, she lifted a hand to press against her chest again, against whatever was on the chain around her neck, pushing it further against her sternum and taking a deep breath. “You don’t need my permission to attempt to be worthy of it.”

He made her a slighter bow, hand over his heart. “A statement of intent. I’ll trouble you no more for the moment, and wish you a better afternoon.” He could at least not exhaust her further.

She was quiet, her eyes heavy on him for a few more seconds, before she nodded again. It was the most tacit acceptance he could have ever hoped for.

Giddy with relief--that she’d accepted it, that it was _over--_ he put on his hat, turned away, and got three steps before a voice stopped him.

“Smith, accompany me to my office.”

The giddiness drained out of him, leaving only trepidation. “Of course, Headmaster.”

\--

For a moment, the crowd around them was deathly quiet. Donna forced air in through her nostrils and out through her mouth, and it wasn’t until Joan’s hand found its way back to her shoulder blade that some of the tension finally seeped out of her again.

“Well,” Mrs. Goodacre mused into the silence, “There’s a young man determined to make a statement, and no mistake.”

Almost as soon as she spoke, as though a spell was broken, the other clusters of people around them seemed to shake themselves out of their trance and begin speaking again, hushed whispers breaking out in wild flurries all around them from the townsfolk and the schoolboys equally. Mr. Denman and Mr. Robertson began the process of herding the boys back into formation, and Mr. Challpner nodded slightly toward the ladies of the group, his own expression curious but not judgemental.

“If you would,” Joan said toward him, her own voice clipped and businesslike, “Do inform the Headmaster that we will be late getting back up to the school.”

Mr. Challpner took this as the request for privacy it was, and inclined his head in acknowledgement toward them. “Certainly, Matron. Have a good afternoon, ladies.” He moved to assist Messrs. Robertson and Denman.

“This way, my dears,” Mrs. Goodacre said briskly. “I think you could both use some tea and a quiet moment.” She cleared them a way through the crowd by apparent force of will, warding off all hangers-on except a particularly determined Mrs. Mary Hodges, who seemed to be her right-hand woman by the way she took a flanking position on Joan’s other side. But then, as the innkeeper’s wife she’d be of some consequence, wouldn’t she?

Donna just hoped that the very slight tremble she could feel from herself wasn’t as apparent to everyone else as it must be to Joan, whose steady touch was the only thing keeping _her_ steady at the moment.

The Vicarage proved a den of comfort, the sitting-room worn shabby but bright with potted plants and comfortable chairs and, indeed, some of that promised quiet. Mrs. Goodacre and Mrs. Hodges ushered them to seats and produced tea in what really did seem like ‘a twinkling,’ and soon Donna had a plate of biscuits, a cup of tea, and three sets of eyes watching to see if she wanted silence or a chance to relieve her mind.

For a horrible few seconds Donna clung to the terrible thought that she was still going to have to be in control of herself, still going to have to present the best of herself because she and Joan couldn’t make a tactical retreat.

Then she threw that thought out the window, because she realized she couldn’t stand the thought at all.

She grabbed a biscuit off of the plate and shoved the entire thing into her mouth, because _sod it all_ , she was stressed and wanted comfort food. She _hated_ controlled confrontation. She hated not being able to scream something into submission.

At least the biscuits were excellent.

Joan patted her hand. Mrs. Goodacre and Mrs. Hodges traded looks, but smiled.

“You handled it marvellously,” the vicar’s wife began. “Whatever that young man said to you, he certainly must have deserved to humiliate himself that thoroughly.”

“Still, there are worse beginnings,” Mrs. Hodges mused. “Young men don’t go to lengths like that unless they’re madly in love, and that sort of lesson only needs learnt once, usually.”

Donna _immediately_ choked on the biscuit in her mouth, devolving into a coughing fit.

Joan provided a handkerchief and patted her back solicitously, for all her lips were firm in distaste. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what he said, Mrs. Hodges. It was quite beyond the pale.”

“You can call me an interfering old busybody if you like,” said Mrs. Goodacre, somewhat ironically as she wasn’t much older than Joan herself, “but what--in summary, you needn’t give details-- _did_ he say? People will talk, there’s no stopping them, but they’ll listen to me. We might as well use it.”

After a few extra seconds to get her breath back, Donna took a gulp of tea to make sure her airway was fully cleared, and glanced up at the two other housewives, looking pained. She kept her own voice even, despite how _tired_ the entire situation had left her over the last four days. “He found me disciplining some of the students for attempting manslaughter in the stairwell, misconstrued my words as an intent to harm them _myself_ , and then cast aspersions on my child-rearing capabilities as well as my being unmarried.”

There was silence as they digested this.

“In that case, I’m very impressed by your restraint, and don’t snap him up until he’s got on with doing some of that proving himself-- _if_ he does,” Mrs Hodges said finally.

“They were very pretty words, but it’s up to him to live up to them,” Mrs. Goodacre agreed. “Do you run across each other much in the course of your duties?”

“Some.” Donna said slowly, taking another, slower sip of tea, “But it hasn’t been very difficult to avoid him, either.” _Heartbreaking, and breaking rule thirteen, but not difficult._

“I’d carry on avoiding him until you feel ready, then. He hurt you terribly, and that doesn’t heal with an apology, no matter how sincerely given.” Mrs. Goodacre took a neat bite. “He’s got to come to you.”

“I do hope you’ll keep us up to date on his penances, though,” Mrs. Hodges giggled into her tea. “If this is his idea of an apology, at least you’ll never be bored.”

Donna took a moment to meet Joan’s eyes, hesitating -- she’d told the nurse the full _context_ as to why that comment hurt as much as it had, and wasn’t sure if she wanted to share that context with these women or not. They seemed kind enough, but it was still… a lot to trust to practical strangers. Especially when Mrs. Goodacre had claimed she would be handling the rumor mill as best as she could.

But on the other hand, they still seemed one layer removed from how direct the wound had been.

Joan nodded, lips firm and gaze hard. Of course, Joan would have known Mrs. Goodacre for years.

She took a breath, and then looked up to meet the suddenly intent gazes of the two women, realizing all at once that they were incredibly perceptive and already sharpening their metaphorical pitchforks at the realization that there was more to the story.

For a few seconds, Donna floundered, before setting her shoulders and tackling it the same way she had told Joan: ripping off the bandaid.

“I’ve been engaged four times,” she started, “And… I suppose, married once out of those four, though it lasted about five hours before I… had to count myself as a widow.”

There was an appalled silence. The temperature dropped so fast Donna was surprised the tea didn’t rime in her cup.

“I _see,_ ” Mrs. Goodacre said darkly. “My dear, tell me plainly: Do you want him drummed out of that school?”

“ _No._ ”

The word popped out of her mouth so fast that she barely had the chance to register the question before she was refuting it. There was too much to worry about, too many possibilities that something would _happen_ if she wasn’t there to keep an eye on him, no matter if being around him now felt like picking glass out of old wounds.

She owed the Doctor more than she needed to avoid John Smith.

Her vehemence left them blinking, but they nodded.

“You’re a better woman than I,” Mrs. Hodges huffed. “I’m sorry, Miss Noble. I won’t make those suggestions again.”

“It’s just her old matchmaking habit, pay it no mind,” Mrs. Goodacre put in. “I’ll make it clear you’re the one being gracious and that his apology was _barely_ adequate.”

“If that,” Joan grumbled. “I _did_ explain--to a point--how egregious his comments were, and he did listen, but nothing could be sufficient.”

Donna’s hand creeped back up to clutch at the watch under her blouse, pursing her lips. It didn’t seem all that fair, now that she’d told them, to use that as a way to kindly get Mrs. Hodges to _shut up_ about relationship entanglements, but it was the quickest recourse she had at the moment. She couldn’t exactly explain that John Smith could _never_ feel romantically toward her, considering he was the shell of a 900 plus year old alien who was her very strictly _platonic_ best mate.

“If Miss Noble deems it sufficient, it’s sufficient, and I’ll see to it everyone knows that,” Mrs. Goodacre said firmly.

“Mm,” said Joan.

Mrs. Goodacre’s lips quirked. “I never said I’d try to convince _you,_ dear. I know you far too well for that.”

Joan smirked over her cup. “I should hope so, after ten years’ acquaintance.”

“But enough of him!” Mrs. Hodges put in. “You must be very busy up at that school, but I hope we’ve some hope of seeing you at Women’s Institute meetings from time to time? We’ve a very ambitious schedule of lectures this year…”

\--

_One half-hour of dinner,_ John promised himself. _One more half-hour_ of being stared at and whispered about and being firmly _ignored_ by Rocastle after that talk this afternoon, and then he could go to bed and _suffocate himself with a pillow_ and finally be done with this. Blasted. Day.

He was still glad the apology had gone so much better than he’d dreamed, but did there have to be the _rest_ of the public humiliation?

...well, yes, of course there did; that was part of the apology.

(̶͉̋y̵͚͑ǫ̵̀u̸̇ͅ ̸͎̒ë̷̖́a̴͙͌r̷͓̔n̶̼͛e̸̱̅d̵̩͐ ̴͔̍t̴͚̐h̷͍͊i̸̳̿s̷̤̕,̶̢̈́ ̶̳̄i̵͙̔d̵̯͝ĩ̶͓ò̸͈t̵̮̓ ̶̣̀b̵͈͂o̵͚y̸̥̑.̶̩)̵̺͆

John squared his shoulders. _One more half-hour._ He could, and would, do that.

He stepped into the buzzing refectory.

Once again, silence descended. This was getting downright repetitive.

_One more half-hour._

John forced himself to walk with unhurried dignity up to the staff table, and took his seat, which Challpner had mercifully saved for him. He turned to ask him some question--

\--and immediately forgot his topic when Challpner just _looked_ at him for a long moment.

John firmed his jaw. He stood by his apology; he wasn’t going to retract it now, no matter what anyone thought.

Challpner regarded him for another moment, face bland.

John tried not to squirm.

Slowly, very slowly, Challpner raised one eyebrow.

John looked away. So much for maintaining some level of his own dignity.

“[You, Smith,]” Challpner said blithely, lifting his glass and offering him a mockery of a toast, “[Are, to Cupid’s arrows, the broad side of a barn.]”

John tried very hard not to blush. He failed miserably. “Hang me in a bottle,” he muttered in English, “like a cat.”

“In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.” Challpner replied, his mouth curling into a small, amused smile as he returned the reply to the quote.

“And I am vilely painted,” John grumbled. “[I am well acquainted with the depth and breadth of my dullness, Challpner.]”

“[Oh, the entire town is now, Benedick.]” Challpner snickered. “[Best of luck in wooing your fiery Beatrice.]”

“[I’d settle for a _merry_ war and not a frozen hell. Or death by hemlock, as the handmaiden would exact me.]”

“[Oh, but what a way to go.]” Challpner raised his glass once more, and left John to die by inches in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s our AU and we’re doing what we want with it. Re: The Pen, rewatch Partners in Crime, then presume that Donna snatches the sonic pen from Ten before they can throw it away. Then have fun re-imagining the chaos of the other episodes with a Donna who is just as capable of breaking things with Sonic technology as the Doctor is. We certainly are.
> 
> Notes on character borrowing: Mrs. Goodacre is once again straight out of the pages of Busman’s Honeymoon, because Wren adores her. Mrs. Hodges we more or less made up whole-cloth; there’s a Mrs. Hodges in Human Nature AND one in Busman’s Honeymoon, but neither of them have anything in particular to do with our one. It’s just a very common name.
> 
> Wondering just what the heck a [Women’s Institute](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Women%27s_Institutes) is? So did Wren for _years_. Bless Wikipedia.
> 
> Plaintext renderings of the zalgo/spoopytext:  
> 1\. Too late.  
> 2\. Happy mediums, idiot boy!  
> 3\. (you earned this, idiot boy.)


	8. eight or nine wise words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a crush and PTSD he can't even remember.
> 
> Donna has _standards._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time War flashbacks, dissociation, and active but beneficial gaslighting via psychelock ahead! Whee!

“Oh, dear, what now?”

Donna paused from where she had turned to shut the door to the infirmary behind her again, glancing over her shoulder quizzically at a faintly amused, concerned looking Joan. It was Monday afternoon, and _that_ was the first thing out of Joan’s mouth upon her entrance. The tea tray in her hands was clinking a bit as she moved, but otherwise sturdy and balanced in one hand. Once the door was shut she returned her second hand to stabilizing it.

“What?” she asked, tilting her head.

“What’s happened now?” Joan repeated, moving over to help her find a spot to put down the tea things. “Last time you came in here with tea I learned an unusual urge to sharpen my scalpels.”

“ _Oh,_ no,” Donna shook her head with a sheepish smile. “No, nothing like that. Well, maybe somewhat related to that. Or almost entirely.”

“What did Mr. Smith do _now_?”

“ _Nothing_ \--” Donna laughed a little bit, pouring the tea into the cups while she talked, “I’m not doing this because something’s _happened_ , Joan, I’m doing this _because_ I made such a mess of it _last time._ As a thank you for putting up with me at my worst.” She put the teapot back onto the tray and looked up to meet Joan’s eyes with a sheepish smile. “I feel like you’re doing so much for me, this is the least I could do in return.”

Joan slowly settled into the chair across from her, looking puzzled but far less concerned as Donna put her teacup in front of her. “Donna, you’re my _friend._ I do those things because I care about you, not in hope of reciprocation.”

“I _know_ that,” Donna huffed, “And I’m allowed to want to be a friend _back_ , you know.” She reached forward and plucked a biscuit from the central tray, bringing it to her own saucer.

Joan was startled into a laugh. “Your point is taken. I was just thinking about ringing for some in any case, but then one of the boys came in, and…” she shrugged and reached for the jug of cream. “But how _has_ your day found you?”

“Quietly, for once,” Donna smiled. “I think I’ve actually just about gotten the paperwork caught up, between what was overdue and what’s come up since. Mr. Robertson cursed me for bringing him more today, which tells me that I’ve been doing my job and making myself a right proper nuisance at least.”

“I don’t know if I should be proud of you for your industry or exasperated that you seem to expect being cursed at to the point you use it to gauge your success,” Joan mused. “He didn’t say that in front of the _boys,_ did he? Do I need to have a word with him about appropriate behaviour?”

“Not actual cursing.” Donna laughed, “He called me a heinous taskmaster making more work than I needed to, and I told him that once we were caught up he’d only have to see me once a week at best.”

“In that case I’m merely proud of you,” Joan smirked. “Really, I’ve been seeing to my _own_ paperwork for years, he needn’t go into hysterics.”

“ _Honestly_.” Donna snickered, “The only gent I haven’t had an issue with at all with his paperwork has been Challpner. Robertson threw a hissy fit, Denman _misplaced_ his, I don’t need to explain about Moffat…” she sighed, “Well… I suppose Smith’s been alright with his. His hiring paperwork got lost in the shuffle, though, so I’ve had to dump quite a lot more on him than the others just to get caught back up.”

“He’d better do it all without complaint, after what he said to you,” Joan growled. “And extra. I hope he’s at least done it _accurately?_ How some of these men expect the boys to read anything they write on a board with handwriting like theirs, I can’t imagine… though yes, Challpner at least has always been a gentleman. I don’t see him often in the course of our duties, though; he keeps a tight ship and the boys don’t act up when he’s about.”

“I haven’t really talked with him much,” Donna agreed, “But he’s been very polite to me. Not a bad looking bloke, either. If I was looking, I might have found my eyes lingering.”

“So _that’s_ how your tastes run.” Joan took a biscuit. “He’d do better to tell the barber not to clip him so close next time, the close cut just makes his ears stand out and does that Roman nose no favors.” Her lips quirked. “He does have those lovely eyes, though. And the Northern accent is unexpectedly charming.”

“The short beard does frame his face rather nicely, too. Makes him look distinguished.” Donna nodded, “And no complaints _at all_ on those broad shoulders. I’m not surprised the boys don’t act up at all when he’s around.”

“He’s never needed more than a glare to keep order in all the time I’ve worked at the school,” Joan agreed. “But he keeps to himself, mostly. I could swear he’s spoken more outside of his classes in the two weeks since Smith came to work here than he has in the last two years.”

“Even so he doesn’t talk much,” Donna chuckled, “And yet he somehow still has left more of an impression on me than Mr. Phillips has. I don’t even think I’ve directly interacted with the man at all.”

“Really?” Joan asked, surprised. “OTC must generate as much paperwork as my infirmary, if not more.”

“Yeah, but, he’s never in his office when I stop in?” Donna shrugged, a bit helplessly. “There’s so much paperwork he’s behind on, I’ve dropped it off multiple times and he never turns it in. If I didn’t see him at dinners I might have started questioning whether he existed at all.”

“Curious. But, come to think of it, that’s not really likely to change--day to day he’ll be keeping order in the halls or seeing to discipline or the training equipment. I see him quite a bit because of training injuries, and of course he’s also in charge of sport. I suppose his office is just a place to keep unfinished paperwork or make the boys cool their heels.”

“Well, in any case, I’m going to drop him some _extra_ work this week. Just got papers in for equipment lending for OTC.”

Joan scowled. “Artillery practise at last. How they don’t lose more fingers, limbs, or _heads_ handling those--those--those _bloody_ machine guns I can’t imagine, but I have to patch them up all the same!”

Donna stilled, her hands tightening around her teacup, and very slowly put it back down to the saucer. “Have they at least been taught basic gun safety?” she asked, trying to keep the conversational tone and not be _too_ obvious that she was very concerned about the answer. “Safety on unless shooting, don’t point at anything you don’t plan to kill, fingers off the trigger _until_ you’re going to shoot, that sort of thing?”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes,” Joan sighed, taking a deep breath in an effort to control her own tone. “No accidents with the live ammunition since I started ten years ago, at least.”

“Do they get taught the proper way to _hold_ the guns?” Donna asked next. “Or do you get quite a few dislocated shoulders from blowback?”

“Those are _preventable?”_ Joan snarled. “I have a parade of them every Saturday as soon as the prop guns and the dud ammunition come out, and if that’s down to _neglect--”_

“Of _course_ they’re preventable!” Donna looked appalled. “Those are caused by the butt of the rifle being against the shoulder itself and not the crux of the armpit! Blowback can throw out the joint, or sometimes worse, I’ve known someone to crack their collar bone because their rifle wasn’t braced properly, not to mention it _drastically_ lowers your aiming capability!”

Joan’s lips were pressed so thin they were nearly invisible. “I avoid training except to handle the injuries because it reminds me of my husband’s death at Spion Kop,” she said evenly. “I see that was a mistake. Go with me to the next OTC that we might _remedy_ this, if you please.”

“You’d be hard pressed to keep me from butting my nose in.” Donna huffed, dipping her biscuit into her tea. “This is a military officer training school, the _very_ least they can do is train these children the _proper_ way to not get themselves killed or injured.”

“Oh, I’m just going to be your medical authority,” Joan smirked grimly. “It _is_ what I was hired for.”

“Point me at the problem and cover your ears.” Donna smiled, just as grimly. “I’ll either get sacked or get results.”

\--

_(bloody Looms and screaming children in a war they’d never live long enough to understand and silent crying that never stops even after death_

_the terrible silence of the battlefield)_

*

John woke to a heavy impact and a loud _thump,_ and stared up at the ceiling, dazed.

Oh. He’d fallen out of bed again.

Horrible literally-bloody nightmares he couldn’t even bear to write down? Must be a Saturday morning. Or a Sunday one--no, no church bells. Definitely a Saturday, then. Saturday, September 20th. No church bells, not much interaction with Miss Noble over the past week, but no more frigid distance.

And… no hope of avoiding OTC.

Not that he ever could. Not like Challpner, the lucky bastard, but then, he had seniority over everyone except Rocastle and Phillips, and could do as he liked.

John dragged himself through ablutions and dressing and was done long before the maid knocked with his breakfast.

“Extra coffee,” she chirped. “Just as you requested.”

“Thank you, Jenny,” he said tiredly. “That’ll be all.”

She bobbed a curtsey and took herself off; John found himself curiously relieved, as always. Another puzzle, to go with why he always had those nightmares on _these_ nights; why did Jenny bother him? She was always correct and did her work well, it was just…

(̶̭̤̈̍ḫ̷̆͒e̶͎̳̓̕r̶͍̲͒ ̷̪͎̕n̷̛͍̈a̴̯͂̍m̷͉̌e̷͓͖̐)̵̰̒

Just…

Something.

Saturdays were terrible, that was all there was to it. Sundays were _much_ better.

(̷͍̟͋t̷͔̔͝h̸͓͒e̷̺̩͒͠r̸̘̕e̸͍͋’̶͎͐s̸̬̅ ̸͕̜̓́a̴̞̐͠ ̴̠̤͌͐c̵̗͆͗h̶̗͛͑ã̵̱̿ͅn̶̞͒̇ḡ̶̝͗e̷͑͜.̶̖̑)̴̪̹̾

John put away a pot of coffee and picked at his toast until Assembly was called and he could avoid it no longer. Time for Officers Training Corps.

Really, what was wrong with him? It was only practice, and they were at peace. No blood, no risk, nothing but straw bales and pole-and-bucket targets; it wasn’t as if he was squeamish, there was nothing to be squeamish _about_. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known it was an officer’s training school when he applied.

(s ta t i c)

No, he was only a bit out of sorts. He’d soon buck up.

Roll call and inspection passed in their usual blur; he’d gotten quite practiced by now at handling the routine with only part of his attention, and he muddled on stoically until they got to the range proper.

When they stepped off the path to the range, though, a blur of red caught his eye a bit ahead of them. Miss Noble was striding with the intensity of a _hurricane_ toward the range herself, hands fisted and only just not outright running. Hutchinson’s voice faltered when he called the other boys to a halt, having spotted her as well.

She stepped directly over the line of slightly raised earth that delineated the firing location from the rest of the range, walked out into the center between the firing line and the targets, and whirled in place, setting her shoulders and bracing herself.

She was beautiful and terrifying and _utterly_ the Faerie Queen. John could practically feel electricity in the air, as she _sparked_ and readied an explosion.

_Oh._

_Oh no._

“Miss Noble, _what_ is the _meaning_ of this?” Phillips called out upon seeing her, striding up to stand at the front of the corps where John had been marching.

“You’re _not_ shooting those.” She announced, voice loud enough to cut over the nervous whispers of the boys. “Not today and _not_ on this so-called range.”

 _‘So-called?’_ John looked around, trying to see what was wrong. There was the firing line for stomach drills, the sandbags marking off height for the drills on the knees, and down at the far end of the range there was the vaguely soldier-shaped targets framing a fine view of the town in the near distance--

\-- _oh **no**._

“So-called?” Phillips scoffed. “Miss Noble, your squeamishness has no place at an officer’s school. This range is necessary for the cadets to learn proper artillery work--”

“I know it is!” She snapped back, scowling back at them, raising her voice to cut him off. “This-- This _bloody mess_ waiting to happen is _not_ a range!”

“There’s no backstop,” John said urgently. “Mr. Phillips, she’s right, the guns are pointing down into the _valley.”_

The boys murmured in alarm. Hutchinson stepped forward out of formation and snapped into attention and a salute towards Phillips, “Mr Phillips, permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Speak,” said Phillips, who seemed eager for the chance to ignore Miss Noble.

“Sir, the .303 Vickers gun has a range of 4,500 yards, correct?”

“You’ve been paying attention.”

The boy swallowed. “Sir, that’s about two and a half miles. We’re only about a mile out of town.”

There was a terrible silence.

“Sir,” added Hutchinson, looking queasy.

Phillips now looked a bit green himself. “Well observed and calculated, Hutchinson, Mr. Smith.” He nodded to them, hesitated briefly, and then nodded to Miss Noble, as well. “Miss Noble, I thank you for your care to detail. This error in groundskeeping and preparation must be rectified immediately.” He hesitated again. “...Have you any other observations to make?”

She pursed her lips, but clearly decided not to call him to task for the casual display of sexism. “A joint observation with Nurse Redfern.” She said, chin held high. “The boys regularly dislocate their shoulders during artillery practice, from what she said. Thus, they’re _not_ bracing their weapons correctly.”

This brought a new wave of whispers, this time less queasy and more quizzical, and more than a little defensive on more than one case. Merryweather was openly scoffing at the implication. It was quite apparently one thing to point out a circumstance that saved lives, and entirely another to point out that _they personally_ were doing something _wrong._

“And what do you know?” Baines muttered under his breath, just barely close enough to John for him to hear.

“Speaking out of turn, Baines,” John snapped, though quietly. “Report for discipline after training.”

“Yes, sir,” said Baines, sullen.

“And how do you come to this conclusion?” Phillips asked, promptly undoing any good that might have come from John’s reprimand.

“Experience, though I’m certain you’ll discount that, observation, and _damn well common sense._ ” she snapped back, hands on her hips. “If _some_ boys are leaving artillery practice without injury and some are leaving it _with_ injuries, then it stands to bloody reason that they’re doing something bloody different from one another!”

More whispering, a bit more angled to acceptance; it was difficult to deny this logic.

“Would you care to elucidate your experience, Miss Noble?” John dared to ask. He didn’t know her well (that had been made _very_ clear, to his shame), but observation painted her as the sort not to have any truck with falsehood. If she was putting herself forward as an authority, she probably had it. However oddly acquired.

“I learned how to shoot rifles when I was younger than _they_ are.” She gestured at the formation of boys. “Taught by my gramps. We went shooting regularly and I’ve kept the hobby up until a few years ago. I do, in fact, know what I’m talking about.”

 _More experience than I have, then._ He thought. He did well enough helping out at whatever was asked of him in these sessions, and was a fair shot, but he couldn’t quite remember--

(d o e s n ’ t m a t t e r)

“Perhaps a review of gun safety from a different perspective would be useful,” John suggested. “The boys could also review ballistics and make suggestions on an effective backstop design.”

“What an _excellent_ suggestion, Mr. Smith,” said Phillips, in tones that said it wasn’t an excellent suggestion at all. “You and Miss Noble may conduct that lesson. Immediately.”

Ah, volunteering. Could be worse. At least they wouldn’t be _firing_ the guns today. “If Miss Noble is willing, I would be delighted.”

Miss Noble’s face took on that discomfiting calm state again, as she leveled her stare on Phillips. John felt a small shiver run down his spine, knowing just how much wrath was held in check behind that look. After a few seconds, though, her lips curled into a smile that was poisonously sweet.

“Of course, Mr. Phillips. I do suppose that if I help teach _your_ class for you, it would give you the chance to catch up on the paperwork you’re fairly behind on. It would get your job done, _and_ mine.”

The boys wisely didn’t giggle. John had to bite his tongue to follow their example.

“What an… efficient arrangement,” Phillips said woodenly. “I’ll be in my office. Smith, your troop.”

“Thank you,” John said, not trusting himself to say anything else.

Phillips marched off in high dudgeon.

In the silence after he left, Miss Noble turned to the troupe of boys. “Mr. Hutchinson, if you would be so kind as to direct the troop back to the OTC core classroom.”

Hutchinson glanced at John, who nodded. “Miss Noble _is_ an instructor at the moment, Hutchinson, with all that implies.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am. A _ten_ -tion!”

The boys snapped into attention at the order.

“A _bout,_ face!”

As one, the boys swept one foot behind themselves and twisted in a 180 degree turn.

“For-ward, _march_!”

And off they went. Miss Noble’s shoulders sagged a tiny bit as they started their way back toward the school proper.

“Thank you,” John said quietly. “We should have caught that, and we didn’t, and it would have been beyond terrible.”

“It would have been a _massacre_.” She murmured back, rubbing tension out from under her eyes. “Saturday mornings are the time to go to market down in town. Mothers and any children they have to watch.”

(̷̙̍b̸͉͎͇͗̌͊l̵̡͎͓̈́̾̈̚͜o̸̧̖̬͆̌o̵̘̪̟̘d̷͈͒̓̓͘ ̶̗̳́̋͝a̵̰̻̳̚n̴̳̬͉̂d̷͔̮̫͊ ̴͈̉͑g̸̦̓̈́̅o̵̤̤̲͖͒̿̒̕r̸̟̆̏̌͜e̴̘̳͌̏ ̴̠͍̦͙̈́̂̈̚a̴̪͍̥̍͝n̸͍̔́d̴͉͑̍ ̴̢̧̙̄̾̕š̴̨̬̗ĉ̵͔̝̙̃͗̈́͜ṙ̷̖̰̲̈́̃̈́ȇ̵͔̹̝͈́ḁ̷̾̑̿͝ͅm̷̨̓̓i̴̗̜͗͘n̷͈̱̞̔̄͌̽g̵̣̑̅ ̴̭͎̯͉͗a̴̮̮̾̂̊́ņ̵̢̜͈͋̾̕d̴͔̙̈̀̏͜ ̵̢̗̍̓͂̍t̶̢͌̏i̴̞̪͚̊̑̕͝n̷̘̱̈́̏͝y̵͓͛͛̋̚ ̷̢̳͙̯͆̾l̵̳̞̫̅͜i̸̖̝̪͂̏m̷̮̲̼̄̈́p̵̝̽̌̽͝ ̵̡̲̬̭̆b̶̜̙̟̋̈́̄͝ő̷̼̔d̷͖̐͝ï̴̺̩̘e̴̡̳̘̕͝š̴̟ ̸̺͂́

*

_(not here not now ̵̗̈ň̵͓o̵̓͜t̸͚̾ ̵̮̚y̷̹͊ö̶̬ư̴̥r̶̘̋s̴̳͛)_

“Mister Smith. _Mister Smith.”_ There were fingers snapping in front of his face. “ _John Smith.”_

The fingers rested on his cheek, feather light.

“Doctor…?”

Kindness? There was still kindness for someone with that name?

“Oh, dear… John.” The voice came again, softer this time, and the feather light touch of the fingers grew stronger, spreading across his cheek. “John, focus on me, alright? And breathe.”

The world drifted back into focus. The fingers belonged to a woman, her face concerned, her hair a sunset. Even as a picture of worry, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

*

John blinked. Why was he breathing so hard? The pace hadn’t been punishing by any stretch of the imagination. “...Miss Noble? I apologize, my attention must have … wandered.”

“You…” she hesitated, pulling her hand back from his personal space, looking concerned, “You looked about an inch from outright panic.”

“...A vivid imagination,” he temporized.

“Are you certain you’re alright? Perhaps you should sit down--?”

Sitting down was the _last_ thing he should do. Action, he needed focus, he needed to _not think about it._ “Thank you, but we should go, the boys are far ahead of us--”

And if he hurried, maybe he could escape whatever stray thought had terrified him so.

(̷̰̃n̷̨͝ḯ̶̮c̶̭̈́e̴̱̕ ̶̧̾t̴̤̂h̴͕͗ỏ̴̖u̴̻̅g̴͔̽h̷̺̽t̷̬͝.̵̻ ̶͉̆n̴̨͠ę̸̔v̸̜͝ȇ̷̲r̵͓̔ ̸̠͛ẅ̷̫́ö̷̪r̸͖̽k̴̡̈́s̵͔̍.̸͇͑)̵͓̓

John increased his pace as much as he could without losing dignity. Really, falling asleep in broad daylight! While walking! Saturdays were _terrible._

She strode after him, matching his pace relatively easily even in heels on uneven ground, but other than falling into step beside him she didn’t do much else. Her hands were tucked and folded together behind her back, and she kept her eyes forward.

He was grateful. They’d both need as much dignity as they could muster for the lesson, after all the foofaraw before it.

(And it was... good, having her near.

Peaceful.

Perhaps even grounding.)

“Alright, you lot!” she said, as they got to the classroom again, and all at once her attention was fully focused on the small hoard of eyes that turned toward them both. “To start with, a reminder! The first rule of gun safety is: _you do not point your weapon at anything you don’t fully intend to kill._ Don’t aim at what you _won’t_ _shoot._ ”

Nods, a few scattered eye-rolls.

“If you’re so worldly-wise, Baines, why don’t you come play the target?” John drawled.

“You can take turns with anyone else who doesn’t think it’s important who you point your rifle at,” Miss Noble nodded dryly.

“Which would include Merryweather, Smythe, and Pemberton.”

“This is non-negotiable, gentlemen.” Miss Noble’s face gained a serious edge to it as she stared down the room full of reckless, entitled teenage boys. “You practice proper gun safety or you don’t get bullets. Full stop.”

Gulps and nods circled the room without exception. None of them could bear the thought of being the only one who didn’t get to practise with the ‘real thing.’ (Latimer and Narayan-Singh merely looked sober and serious, as they always did in training classes, but John had never known them to have difficulty remembering the maxims.)

“Rule two: Fingers stay _off_ the triggers until you’re _in the process_ of shooting. I don’t care if you think the safety is on, always assume that it’s not. I don’t care if you’ve checked and double checked and _triple checked_ that it’s on. Treat _every_ weapon as though it is both loaded, and the safety is malfunctioning.” She looked around at them again, meeting each set of eyes one at a time and making sure that they were all listening. “Anyone who I catch with their finger on the trigger for longer than it takes to compress it and let go again will also lose their bullets.”

Nods again. They might not be taking the possibility of death seriously yet, but all of them were listening to the far more personal threat of loss of privileges. It was a start.

“Rule three,” Miss Noble said, holding her hand out to John, who was standing closest to the rack of practice rifles. “If I may, Mr. Smith.”

“Certainly, Miss Noble.” John unlocked the bar across the rack that kept the rifles in place and passed her a rifle.

She grasped it with both hands, shifting it fluidly into position without an instant of hesitation, and notably, meticulously clear of pointing it at anything, even though it was little more than a fitted puzzle of polished wood and metal with no active firing mechanism. The barrel remained pointed toward the ground even as she shifted it into her arms. Delicately, she tilted it up to look down at the safety, and tsked.

“Whoever last put this rifle back gets a failing mark,” she said slowly. “Safety is off.”

She flipped it with her thumb back to on, and raised her head to look at the boys again. “Rule three is that you _only_ turn off the safety in order to shoot. You flip it back on for everything else. Magazine changing, dismantling for cleaning, no matter what it is. You stop shooting, you flip it back on. And yes, I know this seems to contradict rule two, but you still _assume_ it’s off at _all times_ if you’re at ease and keep your damned fingers off of the trigger.”

She didn’t even look down at the rifle in her hands as she discharged the practice magazine, held it out at elbow length, then put it back in in the same movement. Her hand immediately returned to the same position -- thumb pressed to the safety trigger, forefinger extended straight _outside_ of the trigger well.

“To summarize, and I expect all of you to keep these in mind at _all times_ when you have a weapon in your hands: Don’t aim at what you won’t kill. Don’t touch the trigger until you’re ready to pull it. And don’t. Leave. Your _bloody_ safety off.” She pulled her lips into a grim smile. “Then perhaps you can avoid accidentally shooting each other and killing your classmates.”

John knew he was supposed to be leading the class, or at least helping, but he couldn't think of any way to improve on her instruction. If he were to be perfectly honest, he was rather enjoying watching her go. Donna Noble in her element was a force to be reckoned with, a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

“Now, gents,” she said, her smile relaxing a bit into something a bit more genuine. “Who wants to learn how to hold one of these so you don’t dislocate your shoulders when you fire it?”

Every hand went up.

And he should probably stop staring at her soppily in front of most of the troupe, but they'd all seen him at dinner every night for the last week, pining pathetically from the other end of the table, this couldn't possibly be _news_.

...John, though.

She’d called him John.

Perhaps things really _could_ get better.

\--

For the first Saturday night in as long as he could remember, John slept without nightmares.

_Just this once, everybody lives!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Backstop Incident was one of the first images we came up with back when we were just bullshitting a ‘human nature where they aren’t fake married’ wishlist on the Tups discord. Because Wren memorizes things like the Amazon Prime Filming Goofs Trivia about, oh, forgetting arms ranges should have BACKSTOPS. That whole bit about what kind of Vickers gun it is and its range is straight from that blurb.
> 
> The GUN SAFETY is 100% unadulterated Tini goodness, not from concentrate, accept no substitutes. Wren, like John, just sat back and watched them go. <3
> 
> Did you notice where and why the thought distortion stopped? ;)
> 
> Spoopytext translations:  
> 1\. (no more)  
> 2\. (her name)  
> 3\. (there's a change)  
> 4\. (blood and gore and screaming and tiny limp bodies)  
> 5\. (EXTERMINATE)  
> 6\. not yours  
> 7\. (nice thought. never works.)


	9. bait the hook well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And like the dawn you broke the dark and my whole world shook_  
>  "[Like the Dawn](https://youtu.be/Hd9vh89To4M)," The Oh Hellos (with one liberty taken)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With continuing fulsome gratitude to the [Tups discord server](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208397/chapters/35273690) for their enthusiasm and general existence! Y’all seriously made us our OWN CHANNEL in which to be dramatic at each other and lurk about hinting evilly… not to mention spam gorgeous pictures from all over the world for the #mysteriousaesthetic. You’re too great, all of you.

She is weightless.

The crushing weight of the world is pressing down on her shoulders, but there's no gravity to pull it down upon her, no direction for it to press. There’s no direction to anything, nothing around her, nothing crushing her, and yet she can barely breathe with the weight of what it promises to be.

She can feel ground underneath her feet, though there is none -- it’s as though she’s standing on a vast plane of pure black mirrors, one which disappears into the sky with no horizon in existence.There’s no reason why she’s resting against it, and she knows she could push off of it and fall forever into the emptiness for eternity.

Somewhere out in that empty darkness, there is an ending. She feels herself peering up into the void and longing to find it, to fall until she can’t remember the feeling of gravity, until everything else fades away from existence until it’s only her and that distant, unreachable end, forever.

In the quiet, she realizes she _can_. She bends her knees, then pushes up and off, leaving the mirrored surface of the empty void behind, never to return. Her reflection is the last thing she sees before everything becomes cottonsoft blackness, enveloping her and seeping into her pores, until every atom is saturated in it. _I’m finding you. I’m coming home_.

*

In the darkness, distant and unreachable, lies a sleeping god at the end of everything.

*

She falls for an unending time, deeper and deeper into the black void, until it has wrapped around her soul and cradled it close. There are stars, somewhere in the distance, scattered and zooming past her in a silent rush of wind. They spiral from the darkness, _always spiraling_ , in an endless balance, a golden curve that brings them close enough to touch.

As they near her, they burn red and expand until they brush against her skin, washing the warmth of supernovae across her skin as she passes. She passes a hand through the nebulae of iridescent gasses as she passes one, cradling stardust through her fingers with a wordless whisper of love falling from her lips.

She falls ever upward.

Stars ignite all around her, forever spiraling, and they dance until she joins them, curling her own spiral to counterpoint the one that surrounds her, turning her head up into the void and lifting a hand above her head to reach for something that remains just out of reach.

*

There is a song calling ever outward, steady and rhythmic and holding a promise.

There is an underlying beat in the darkness between atoms. A heartbeat thrumming through the entirety of the universe, which breathes in nebulae and breathes out supernovae. A looming horror, with entropy in its veins and all of eternity its den.

There is a god sleeping in the darkness, waiting for absolution, waiting for the end of eternity.

 _Time_ hears its song answered, and raises its head from its slumber.

*

When she forgets how to dance with the explosions of stars and the endless, perfect, golden spiral, when all she can do left is reach toward where she’s falling, when she forgets her own heartbeat and breathes with the darkness to the slow ticking of time,

her fingers

will finally

brush.

\--

Donna woke with a start in the drab predawn gray of Sunday morning, disoriented and fuzzy around the edges. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest, as though she’d just run a marathon, and she was heaving for breath as she sat up, pressing her hand to the watch around her neck first to ensure it was still there, underneath her nightgown.

She couldn’t… remember, for a moment, where she was. Looking around the shadowed room brought no sense of familiarity, and she could barely recall what she’d just been dreaming-- something intense, easily as intense as running away from any alien horror with the Doctor, running after them, reaching forward toward them--

but--

No, it’s gone.

She brought a hand up to wince down into it, her head pounding, before shaking the thoughts from her mind and looking around again. Her room with Joan was still soft and quiet and dark, just barely lit enough to see the shape of the other bed in the shadows.

She took the faerie doll from her bedside table and slipped out from under her covers, slipping her feet into the simple cloth slippers at the side of her bed and stepping quietly out onto the balcony, careful not to wake Joan when she opened the door. Clicking it shut behind herself again was even quieter, and after a moment of waiting to be sure she hadn’t made too much noise, she turned to lean on the railing, lost in thoughts and brushing her fingers against the soft patterned felt.

“I miss you.” she said softly down toward the doll. “It’s not even the end of September and I miss you more than anything.”

She twined some of the longer pieces of felted ‘hair’ around her forefinger, tracing the edge of the doll’s face delicately, her throat tight with the admission.

“We have to go to church, here,” she continues, almost conversational in the soft quiet of a morning before the sun has risen. “I’m sure you’d be surprised, hearing I’m attending, at least until I told you I was forced to go. It’s required for everyone at the school here. The vicar’s nice enough, though, the kind of guy I think you’d enjoy talking to, if only to debate with him furiously on the merits of faith. I think he’d give you a fair run at it, too.”

Her breath was misting in front of her face, and she watched it fog and faze out into the air with each exhale. “I’m doing okay,” she continued after a moment, answering a question that couldn’t be asked now. “Not great, but okay. It’s still never going to be as good as when you’re around. There’s a mundanity to the waiting. In some ways, it’s comforting. Familiar. You would absolutely hate it. But it’s not a bad life overall. I don’t mind it overmuch, but I don’t think I’d want to stay.”

Another soft pause, as though listening for their voice when it wasn’t coming. Her thumb brushed in idle circles across the little felted nose of the faerie doll. “There’s other things I miss,” she said softly. “Running after you and laughing hysterically while we fled for our lives. Rolling my eyes whenever you were being particularly brill just to make you sputter indignantly. Being able to just…” she lifted her free hand and reached out over the balcony, spreading her fingers in the damp, chill air, “...reach out and _touch_ you, sometimes. Never did realize how often I did it until coming here. Guess you don’t actually realize how touch starved you are until you lose your welcome touching ground. Used to scruff up your hair all the time just to watch it stick out in all directions -- can’t do that anymore.”

A heart heavy sigh. “At least you’re safe. I can handle anything that’s needed of me as long as that’s true. I’m not so sure how good I am at following your rules, but… I’ve managed some of them. I made a friend, and a few friendly acquaintances. I’ve got myself settled in with a comfortably familiar job. Brought my little comforts.” She traced the faerie doll’s wings with her fingers, smiling ruefully. “And I’m doing my best not to let my jerkbrain get the best of me.”

Her lips pursed. “Wasn’t really… able to follow rules 1 or 14, but… better directed at me than at someone else. I at least know how to handle the emotional bull that comes at me, and how to settle it behind me in the end. There’s a quote I heard once, like that; the past is gone, and cannot harm you anymore. And while the future is fast coming for you, it always flinches first and settles in as the gentle present.” She closed her eyes, shoulders sagging. “Present might be without you, but I know you’re coming back, and that’s all that matters.”

Something soft and warm draped itself around her shoulders.

\--

“Your friend might be coming back, but _you_ might not be there to meet them if you keep forgetting your dressing gown,” Joan scolded.

The redhead’s eyes opened again, and she looked over at Joan with a heaviness on her shoulders that spoke of exhaustion too tired to argue or articulate. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Joan waved this away as the nonsense it was. “You didn’t. The maids are starting to light the fires, that always wakes me up.”

“Oh.” Donna hummed, turning her eyes back out over the expanse of the school grounds, to the town in the distance and beyond it to the rolling fields and forests as far as the eye could see, until off on the distant horizon there was perhaps the glimmering suggestion of the sea, or perhaps simply the fog on the English countryside mimicking it. _Something_ in her expression seemed almost… disappointed. As though it didn’t feel far enough. “I don’t mean to keep you up with my melancholy, then.”

“Do me the credit of allowing me to make my own choices,” Joan said mildly. “I came to check on you because I care about you and would rather not tend you when you have a cold, you’re annoying enough with trying to be _no trouble.”_ She smiled to take the sting out.

“Oh ha, ha.” Donna managed a faint smile, though it fell off again a moment later. She didn’t move her eyes from trying to see beyond the greatest distance available to her at the moment. The slow cresting of the sun was turning the sky a gentle silver at the horizon. Her thumb traced the edges of the doll in her hands.

“Is that from someone dear to you?” Joan asked softly.

“Mmhm.” Donna admitted, exhaling and watching the fog mist away from herself. “Last gift they gave me, before… well. Farringham-on-Llangorse.”

Oh. Oh, that explained far too much, even as it set all her conclusions in disarray. “It’s not a permanent separation, though? I…” Joan bit her lip. “I must confess that when you first arrived I thought you were fleeing some … terrible tragedy.” Donna’s hands tightened briefly around the doll, a twitch of tension turning her knuckles white, but there was no unsaying this. Joan could only go on. “Hearing about your more current troubles has confused that a little, but... you seem certain that the person who gave you that is coming back.” As if that person bore all of the faith Donna had forsworn in higher powers.

“Yeah.” Donna nodded, finally cutting her gaze down at the little faerie doll again and swallowing. “We’ll be leaving as soon as we can. I just have to wait for them.”

“You must love them very much,” Joan ventured.

A soft, humorless little puff of air. Donna’s eyes had unfocused, stolen away into the darkness of the far corners of her mind. “More than words.” she managed softly, “More than breathing.”

The words forced themselves out of her throat, they needed so badly to be said. “Then I hope they come back soon.” It almost didn’t hurt. “Though I will miss you.”

Donna turned to look at her, eyes softening despite the vast distance that remained, her mind still lost in some far off eternity. “Oh, they’d love you, I think.” She said, with a smile like a dying sun. “Bet you could come with us. If you wanted.”

Joan could not have been more amazed if her husband had walked out onto the balcony, hale and whole and smiling as if he weren’t ashes in a little urn on her nightstand.

Go with them?

On journeys that shaped someone like Donna Noble, that made her eyes look like _that?_

Dare she even _dream?_

“Ask me again when they come,” Joan told her, trying not to hope too wildly. Too _widely_. “Ask me when they’ve met me.” She swallowed.

“And I’ll say yes.”

For a moment, the distant eternity was honed and focused on her like a magnifying glass, as Donna _smiled_. “You’ll be _brilliant_.”

Joan wondered why she was blushing. “I’ve been the Matron for ten years now,” she said slowly. “It might be nice to try something new.”

“Hope you’re good at running, then.” Donna said, bringing a hand up to grip gently at the watch hanging around her neck. "We tend to do a lot of it."

“I was as a girl,” Joan admitted, “And I often have to be very active in the course of my duties, but that’s not the same. Clearly I should start again.” She squared her shoulders. “But if I’m going to run away with you, with whom shall I be running?”

The grip around the watch tightened, but for once Donna’s eyes didn’t darken with the movement, for once they flared with a fiery delight and a depthless affection as the sun finally crested the horizon, casting the rings of softer chestnut brown into shades of gold around the silvery gray of her eyes. “The Doctor.” She said around a soft smile. “Think of the most amazing person you could ever imagine, and they’re real. Bit of a pompous prick, sometimes, but the best kind of person at their core.”

“They must be, if you put up with them,” Joan said slyly. “I can’t imagine you putting up with a ‘pompous prick’ if they hadn’t earned your love quite soundly.”

“They’re not really bad about it, usually,” Donna temporized, “Usually they just need the reminder that they’re not the only one who can do things in a room. It’s quite fun, dragging them back down off of the pedestal they keep accidentally stepping themself up onto and reminding them to be humble. And they more than make up for it most of the time -- they’ll spoil you rotten.”

Joan tried to imagine such a person. Somehow, when _Donna_ believed in them so fiercely, it didn’t seem so very hard. “They sound … dazzling. What do you do?”

For a few seconds, that glimmer of delight was back in Donna’s eyes, though she hummed and hesitated a tiny bit. “It’s… going to sound kind of fantastical.”

Joan had to suppress a snort. “Donna, you’re already the most unusual person of my acquaintance, but I’m quite convinced you never bother to make up _anything._ You don’t have the patience for it. Just come out with it, and I’ll listen.”

“Actually…” Donna started, with a slow smile forming on her face. “I think I have a better idea. For after church.”

Joan felt her eyebrows lift. “Well,” she said slowly. “I shall look forward to my surprise very much. But for now, it’s chilly, and we should have a good breakfast if we’re going to have a day of adventures.”

Donna made a slight face. “Oh, you know I don’t like being around _people_ in the early morning, Joan…”

Very faintly, Joan heard a tap at the door. “Someone at this hour of the morning?” She rushed into their room, already planning. If it was an emergency in the dorms--

\--but when she opened the door, it was only Jenny, with a very full breakfast tray.

“Morning, ma’am,” the curly-haired maid smiled. “Mr. Robertson didn’t want his breakfast again--he never does--so I thought I’d save you and Miss Noble the trouble.”

Joan beamed upon her. “What a _capital_ idea.” She turned to see Donna coming in after her, pulling the dressing gown close around her shoulders as she shut the door to the balcony again. “Donna! Jenny’s been kind enough to solve our breakfast problem!”

Donna stilled, eyes flickering to Jenny and the tray and hand briefly clenching a bit tighter around the fabric it was holding in place. “That’s lovely,” she managed, with a bit of a smile that looked more akin to a grimace desperately disguising itself. “Thank you, Jenny.”

“You’re quite welcome, miss,” Jenny said, thankfully oblivious. (At least, Joan fervently hoped she was oblivious, and not merely putting a good face on things.) “I’ll just set this down, and you can put the tray outside the door when you’re done. Good morning.” She set the tray on the nearest desk and saw herself out.

“Donna, really, _what_ is it that disturbs you about Jenny?” Joan demanded, after a moment to be certain the girl was out of earshot. “You’ve been flinching around her since the day you arrived!”

“It’s--!” Donna started as though about to argue, before sighing and looking away. “It’s rather a stupid reason.” She moved over to sit on her rumpled bed sheets, starting to finger comb out the simple braid she’d put in her hair the night before. “The Doctor and I had an… adventure, at one point, where we, erm… ended up meeting someone very special, named Jenny, and she…” she bit at her lip. “She didn’t make it. In the end.”

Oh. Oh, no. Oh that wasn’t disgust at all, it was _grief…_ Joan sat beside her and began undoing the braid herself. “I see. No wonder that hurts you… were they very alike?”

“Not in looks,” Donna gnawed lightly at her lip. “But… this Jenny, Jenny here, has the same genuine care for other people. She’s a good soul. I feel bad that I react the way I do, but it’s just… a lot, sometimes.”

“Stop that,” Joan said absently. “Those are the worst to treat. But as to the other pain… if you could bear it, the best thing to do might be to get to know _this_ Jenny, as she is. The care might be a shared point, but that could be a joy, and she might be in many ways very different.”

Donna sighed, leaning back into her hands as Joan began to tug and pull and gently twist the coppery strands into a more delicate braided crown around her head. “I know.” she said softly. “I’ll… at least try.” After a moment of quiet contentment between the two of them, she spoke up again: “So, what did Mr. Robertson decline for his breakfast?”

\--

> _As a tulipant to the Sun (which our herbalists call Narcissus) when it shines, is_ admirandus flos ad radios solis se pandens, _a glorious Flower exposing itself; but when the Sun sets, or a tempest comes, it hides itself, pines away, and hath no pleasure left … do all Enamoratoes to their Mistress._

ROBERT BURTON

When the school marched down to town to attend church, it was always in formation. The boys were split into four troops of twenty, with a student captain directing them and a teacher supervising, with the remaining faculty following suit at the rear of the corps. The six primary teachers rotated each week who was attending to the students and who wasn’t. Phillips, Denman, Roberts, and Challpner were assigned the maintenance of the troops this week, leaving Moffat and himself to trail behind with Headmaster Rocastle, the Matron, and Miss Noble.

Miss Noble and the Matron were keeping up a quiet, enthusiastic conversation just a bit ahead of the three gents, with Miss Noble’s arm wrapped around one of Nurse Redfern’s to keep them a close distance so that they didn’t need to speak loudly and draw attention from the focus of the troops. Every so often Moffat made an attempt or two to join their conversation, but the ladies barely seemed to even notice him, so focused were they on each other.

And Miss Noble was practically _glimmering_ with affection, eyes locked on Nurse Redfern’s face with a smile that could melt gold. She mentioned possibly stopping in to the tailor’s for some excellent fabric that she’d seen in the window the week before, and when they passed into town and said shop came into view, she pointed it out to Nurse Redfern with a grin, leaning close onto the other woman’s shoulder to make sure the sightline was correct: “That one, there. I’d cry to have a dress made of that.”

“That blue one?” asked the Matron, and what John could see of her face was a mix of wonder and warm affection, as she tried to look at both the fabric--which _was_ a stunning shade of blue that would doubtless look spectacular against fair skin and ginger hair--and the woman pointing it out, who was far too stunning to look away from for long, always catching the eye for as long as she was there to see.

_As a tuliplant to the Sun._

John could sympathize.

Throughout church, he had to fight down the urge to turn and watch them sitting in the back pews. She was there, right _there,_ and she was so happy, and the happiness of one fed into the other, making her glow brighter and so the other grew happier in turn, around and around

_(the brightness of a star’s death, the turn of a galaxy’s spiral)_

and surely if the glory of Creation was shown in anything, it was in such a brightness? Appropriate enough thoughts for church… so long as he didn’t turn to peer at them again.

Challpner jabbed him in the side without even bothering to look his way. Clearly he was being too obvious.

John locked his eyes on the pulpit and set his mind to analysing the music and what bearing it would have on the sermon.

The service passed in a hazy impression of beautiful choral music (but really, they _ought_ to do a drive to fix the organ before its bellows failed completely) and a doubtlessly-eloquent sermon of which John failed to recall a single word, but at least Challpner hadn’t elbowed him again.

An entire hour of not staring at Donna Noble! John was honestly rather proud. If he could manage twenty-four consecutive hours of that he might be able to pretend to be a person.

And then they were processing out and she came back into his line of sight and he was lost.

There were loose strands of copper-crimson framing her cheeks, untucked from the gentle plait around the crown of her head just above her ears and falling in gentle twisting waves. She had one twined around one of her fingers as she and Nurse Redfern stopped to say hello to Mmes. Goodacre and Hodges.

And she was _blinding_. The _smile_ on her face could put the sun to shame. She practically glimmered with anticipation, even as she wrapped her arms around one of Nurse Redfern’s again, smiling at the other two older ladies and gently excusing the two of them from the short conversation again.

Nurse Redfern was breathless and delighted, and how could she not be so close to _that,_ and John knew, all at once, that she was just as enchanted as he was.

And how could he possibly resent something that made Donna--made _Miss Noble,_ idiot boy, you’ve n̷̛͕̘o̶̤͑ ̷̰̏͜r̴̥̚i̵̺̊͘g̵̤̗h̴̨͛̇ͅţ̸́͌ to her name--so very happy?

A Queen needed ladies-in-waiting.

He was of half a mind to go and swallow his pride just to try and speak to them, to linger for a moment in her Court. Perhaps to ask to stay a while. To go with them, wherever they were going.

His pride wasn’t worth anything, was it, next to basking in the glory of her smile?

Yes, he’d do it, he’d go and try it, she’d said he could try to earn it, he was only a few steps away--

_\--the death of stars in vibrant explosions of wild untamable energy the birth of nebulae they burn so brightly and sing so sweetly here I am o lai o lai o lai--_

For a moment, his thoughts scattered on solar winds. His dreams had been likewise scattered that morning by that strange, indefinable song. To hear it again cloyed for his attention like a feather dangled in front of a kitten's nose, and he could no more resist leaping for it--

And when the song faded, so, too, were the two ladies gone.

The Queen had claimed another for her Court, and left him for the Beyond.

Challpner was at his side again. John barely dodged the elbow. “[You’re getting more obvious by the day, lad.]”

“ _Admirandus flos ad radios solis se pandens,”_ John said, with a shrug. _A flower that must be admired, spreading itself to the sun's rays._

“[And when she’s gone you pine away and have no pleasure left. Come, we’ve afternoon study duty.]”

John sighed, and returned Over the hill, instead of Under it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Notes: There goes Wren, stealing from Dorothy L. Sayers again! _Gaudy Night,_ this time, in the form of the Richard Burton quote. Sayers loved to apply quotations, and Wren is forever stumbling over the references and going “Oh” quite loudly; they thought they’d share. The alternative translation is stolen from [this marvellously informative article](https://owlcation.com/humanities/latin-dorothy-sayers-gaudy-night).  
> Also the bit about the organ is from _Busman’s Honeymoon._


	10. let wonder seem familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some introductions need a greater amount of flare.

From the _Journal of Impossible Things_

Sunday, 21 September 1913

Curious dreams this morning, but not unwelcome ones. As I told ~~the Faerie Queen~~ ~~Donna~~ ~~Miss Noble~~ the Faerie Queen when I first saw her, my dreams are often beautiful, but not often lovely. Like her, these were both.

Usually something in my soul is very _pointed_ about training boys to war, and I think that may be why OTC seems to violently disagree with my subconscious. I went to bed very much expecting a bookend to Friday night’s usual fare of disaster, destruction, and needless, pointless death, exacted especially on the very young, and well-peppered with explosions.

In this case, 25% is _glorious._

Explosions there were, in plenty, but glorious ones: Ace, the Doctor’s youngest foster-daughter, was instructing each of the boys of the troop in the safe design and deployment of pyrotechnics. Some of them she was strict with, even harsh, and she did not spare them the rough side of her tongue (not even the sweetest conjuration of my subconscious can make me believe that Merryweather and Baines would ever do Dorothy Gale McShane more than the most grudging of honours, and Ace’s mouth was never known for its mealiness), while many of the others she treated with great fondness; Latimer and Narayan-Singh in particular seemed regarded as little brothers, but even Hutchinson collected some friendly teasing.

[A sketch of a short, slender girl in her late teens in a tightly-woven French plait, a jacket covered with patches in varying styles, and a short pleated skirt over leggings and trainers. She is pulling a much taller boy of about her age down by his school tie in order to thoroughly scruffle his hair; both are laughing heartily.]

Ace teaching Latimer who’s in charge

Still, regardless of interpersonal relations, Ace was as thorough and talented a teacher as she has ever been, and the conspiracy of fireworks--for so it became clear it was--proceeded with both rapidity and success, and was well prepared by the time of the great surprise.

At this point my observation skews: I was both the omnipotent observer and the subject of the surprise, for the Doctor was being dragged up the hill to be made ‘victim’ of the conspiracy: a grand picnic with their family, both biological (in the forms of their children and grandchildren and great-grandson) and found, and so very many of their previous companions.

The Doctor was rather surprised that they’d found a big enough hill for the purpose, even in a dream.

(for so it had to be, to have Adric and Peri and Charley all present at once, but as they _were_ there, how could they have minded? They did search for one particular face for a few moments, in great surprise.

It _did_ strike me as strange that the Queen was not in attendance; even the blue box had moved herself up the hill, the better to let the party spill in and out of her.

But perhaps she had duties to attend to Elsewhere.)

The picnic proceeded with great success, much laughter, many hugs, few tears, and no recriminations, for reunions are too rare to waste time. The food in itself would take far too many pages to describe, and my impressions of it are dimmed greatly by the fireworks.

Each boy had his own design in coloured fire, which Ace had helped them realize according to a theme of flowers. Knowing Ace, they all had a deeper meaning than they seem on the surface, but I don’t recall all of them now. I do recollect that Baines had columbine, Hutchinson hollyhock, Merryweather crab-blossom, Narayan-Singh heart’s-ease, and Latimer chamomile.

It was as Ace set off the grand finale, though, that the dream changed again. Her rocket strove for the sky, reached its apex, and burst--

\--and as if had produced it, or called it up, a supernova exploded into view, filling the sky far further than even the Doctor’s eyes could see, singing sweetly of

And then I woke up.

\--

The fields to the south of town stretched for a few miles before any other signs of civilization came into view again, most of them currently out of season. The path cut along freshly turned furrows of dirt, winding along between the edges of fields like a river cutting through a canyon. Donna was doing her best not to turn back to make sure Joan was still following her, trying to trust that the blond trusted _her_ enough to follow.

The barn that the TARDIS was hidden in was just a bit under a mile out of town, still more or less within view if one was looking, but far enough away that it still took about half an hour to walk to it. By the time that they were twenty minutes outside of town again, Donna could practically feel Joan’s eyes locked questioningly onto the back of her head.

“Just a bit further,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to cast a quick grin at Joan.

“A bit?” Joan asked dryly, “Donna, there’s nothing out here but fields for miles yet.”

Donna just smiled a little bit wider and turned to continue walking, humming softly into the crisp chill of the fall air around them.

When the barn finally came into view, Donna’s steps quickened ever so slightly. “Come on, over here.”

“Wh--” Joan gave a brief cut off sound of concern, hurrying to keep up, “Why? No, that barn is abandoned, Donna, it has been for years, it’s locked anyway--”

“ _Was_ locked.” Donna corrected.

“All the more reason! It could be falling apart, or dangerous!”

“Nothing specifically dangerous in there,” Donna grinned. “ _Promise_.”

She reached the doors to the barn with a spring in her step, pulling them open with both hands and completely ignoring the rusted off latch padlock laying in the overgrown grass, which looked far older than the years it had served, as though time had taken its course and compressed years into the span of a second.

\--

The space beyond was shadowed and dim, with only faint streaks of light sneaking in between the sideboards of the barn and the light streaming in from the newly opened doorway. The flooring was mostly worn down to just dirt and scattered bits of hay that somehow hadn’t moulded away. Donna disappeared into the shadows without waiting for Joan to stop her, practically bouncing on her feet with unmitigated excitement.

“Hello, love,” she breathed softly into the darkness, “How are you feeling?”

As if called to life by the sound of her voice, a faint, flickering light formed in one of the darkest corners -- a square sign, and two squared windows above it, with six panes each. The light itself seemed dim and distant, but somehow the pale whiteness was still warm and welcoming.

“Did I wake you?” Donna said, again, into the darkness, moving right over to the source of the lights and pressing her face and hands against the flat surface into which they were inset. It took Joan a moment to realize that she was standing in front of what seemed to be a police call box, though it was the oddest police call box she’d ever seen. The wood around the windows appeared to be a deep, battered blue-gray.

Hesitantly, Joan stepped into the darkness of the barn herself, and shivered at the sudden feeling of something becoming very _aware_ of her. It was like a whispering, inquisitive, uncertain feeling in the back of her skull, a faint tonal thrum, not quite a sound but most easily likened to one.

It set her on edge almost immediately with an unease that she didn’t fully feel was her own.

“I’ve brought a friend.” Donna said, still in that soft tone, lifting a hand a little bit further against the battered wood. “I trust her. I think she’d love to meet you properly. Can we come in? Can I show you off, since they’re not here to do it proper?”

The inquisitive feeling sharpened into _examination,_ and for a moment Joan was nearly overwhelmed by a Presence that looked at her, looked _through_ her, judged her entire existence--

\--and then the weight lessened, warmed into the gentlest of breezes, sweet with affection and ticklish with mischief.

(ϱnoƨ-ni-ɿɘnɈɿɒq ƨ’ʇɘiʜT γM oɈ ϱnoƨ-ni-ɿɘnɈɿɒq || _pɑrtner-in-song to My Tʜief’s pɑrtner-in-song_ )

There was a click, as of a lock opening.

Joan could see the tension flow out of Donna’s shoulders like a river. The redhead turned toward her with a smile that could light up the night sky far brighter than the sun, and held out a hand toward her.

“Love, this is Joan Redfern. Joan, come meet the TARDIS.”

Joan thought that perhaps she should be terrified, that if she were wise she would turn and run, right now, hide her head under the pillows, hide from this greater world and immure herself in the everyday cycles of meals and sleep and work and gossip which had been, in their way, rewarding.

But she wasn’t terrified, and she had never been one to hide from any world, great or small, and perhaps there were other kinds of wisdom.

And it was Donna, asking.

Joan took her hand.

Donna brought it forward until it met the wood, sending another strange, immense _thrum_ through her system with a shiver. Her fingers were guided to a handle where the doors met, and Donna squeezed her hand to urge her to open it herself.

“Go on.” Donna said softly. “She’s invited you in.”

Joan took a deep breath, and then another, and stepped over the threshold into impossibility.

She’d been to the seaside, once. Arthur had taken her to Blackpool for their honeymoon, and they’d loved in the hotel and laughed on the boardwalk, had stood on the shore and watched the sun set over the sea, endless ocean from horizon to horizon until it reached the wide bowl of the sky, and had thought they’d understood immensity.

_Oh my beloved, if I could show you this now, for here is all eternity in a box._

There was even coral, great branches up to the domed ceiling, the light as if shone from underwater, but this sea was not uncaring, and Donna was close behind her, strength and support and warm hope.

Joan took another step. “H--” her breath caught. “Hello,” she ventured.

Donna pulled the door shut behind them both with a soft click, tilting her head back and visibly _basking_ in the soft, welcoming feeling surrounding them. “I missed you too, love.” she said softly, moving past Joan to stride over to the centralized console covered in buttons and knobs and oddly shaped levers. She turned when she reached it, leaning back against it and brushing her fingers against them with an idle affection, and peered at Joan with a softer, sweeter grin. “So…” she started. “What do you think?”

“It’s like you,” Joan said, before she could think better of it.

Donna blinked. It was rather cute, a startled, confused sort of blink. “...Pardon?”

“She’s just like you,” Joan said again, warming to the idea. “I look at you and I think one thing, and then I look again and there’s more, and there _keeps_ being more. You’re like--a magician’s box, or a prism, or a storm over the sea.” She waved about at the impossible room. “You’re both bigger on the inside!”

The _thrum_ came again, this time louder, and gleeful, and more than a little bit proud. It coursed through Joan like a wild river, spreading joy wherever it splashed. A miniature cinema screen flickered to life on the console -- and there was Joan’s own face, in _color,_ repeated back outward to her.

“ _You’re both bigger on the inside!_ ”

Donna, for her part, sat down heavily in the console chair, bringing a hand up to her chest, and started giggling helplessly, her entire face red.

Joan had to giggle with her, swept up in the delight she didn’t entirely understand. “But you are!” she protested through her laughter. “Wonder after wonder after mystery. I think I could know you for a hundred years and never stop learning new things.”

The screen flickered again, cycling through clips, and a series of voices thrummed out of it:

“ _The… inside’s bigger than the outside?_ ”

“ _Much bigger on the inside._ ”

“ _It’s bigger on the inside--_ ” “ _Is it? I hadn’t noticed!_ ”

“ _The TARDIS. It’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside…_ ”

And again, Joan’s voice:

“ _You’re both bigger on the inside!_ ”

And Donna had turned straight toward the screen, reaching for it with a quiet sort of longing stealing over her face. “Oh, you _prawn_ ,” she said, fondly and just a trifle shakily. “I _knew_ you loved that bit.”

Joan peered at the screen. It was still on her face, and that must have been her voice, but before that…

“Donna,” Joan said slowly. “Was that… Mister Smith?”

Donna paused, going alarmingly still, before she slowly turned back around toward Joan, and all at once the weight on her shoulders had returned, the heaviness of a burden she couldn’t explain but now had to attempt to.

“...this doesn’t leave here.” She said. “Do you understand?”

It wasn’t a request. It was a law--not even of society, but of nature, of the fundamental workings of the cosmos.

“I swear it to you,” Joan said anyway, “On my husband’s ashes.”

Donna took a deep breath, and nodded, and then turned back to the screen. She rested her fingers on the edge of it. “Can you pull up the video for me, love?” she said softly. “I miss them terribly.”

A familiar face with unfamiliar hair popped up on the screen, and tapped on the inside of it as if trying to get out. “Is this thing on?” asked Mr. Smith--but no, his face was never so … so _mobile._ Mr. Smith could be intense, but this person was manic. “Donna, here’s a list of instructions for when I’m human--”

\--and then Joan could hear no more, because her heart was in her throat and there was a roaring in her ears. “But--he--they--” She clutched at the console. “But if he’s that friend you love so much, then _how could he say such things to you!?”_

Oh. Rage, that was rage. That explained it.

The weight on Donna's shoulders seemed to redouble, and she sighed with a lingering sense of exhaustion. "Because he's not them." She said softly. "Not really. He's cut from the same fabric but there's so much of them that he can't access. He's so… _young_ , in a way that they can't be. He's not them. I don't know who he'll be by the end of this, but..."

The rage drained out of her. “...but it still won’t be them,” Joan sighed. “I think perhaps I need you to begin at the beginning.”

"A very good place to start." Donna said, with a wry smile that didn't quite meet her eyes. She looked back at the paused video. "We were out having a shopping trip. Just a day to relax between things going buck wild, y'know? But we were spotted by these… hunters, I guess. We had to run, and try to get away, but they were following us relentlessly -- tracking them, the Doctor, their scent. They're the last of their kind, so they're unique, so… only way to stop that was to stop being the last of their kind and to be human instead."

Joan vaguely noted the odd rhythm that spoke of quoting a lyric, but that was immaterial next to the strain in Donna's voice and the terrifying wonder of her story. "That… can't have been easy. Or painless. And yet they're so terrible that was the _best_ option?"

Donna's entire body sagged. "They sent me to pack and prepare." She said weakly. "I didn't know they were going to do it until I heard them screaming."

Joan pulled her into a hug. "That must have been terrifying," she said uselessly.

Donna nodded into her shoulder anyway, squeezing subtly around her middle. "It was. And I came out to the console room -- this room here -- and they were already… mostly done with it. They had just left me this video of instructions, and told me to improvise. She set us down on the 4th September, I sent him out into the world, and then… got myself to work."

Joan blinked. "But… he was here for the beginning of term," she protested. "I remember being introduced, and how he brought in one of the first form boys for homesickness on the second morning. He asked me how the lad was doing the afternoon you came to the school."

Even as she spoke, though, the distinctive memories of the month before seemed to flare up in her mind, as shiny and polished as their creation. It struck her as odd, in a sense, how she could now hear almost a soundless hum surrounding them. How they were still so pristine.

How she couldn’t remember the lad’s _name._

"The things chasing us will be looking for someone who arrived on the fourth," Donna said, fiddling with the watch around her neck. "Not someone who's been there from the beginning of term. At worst, that points them at me, but I'm not half so useful, and I'm fair enough at acting to hopefully fly under the radar."

“Radar?” Joan wondered, but waved this off. “Some form of detection system, I presume, the details don’t matter. But you’re … decoy and guardian both at once?”

“I’m here to protect them.” she said, simply. The hand at the watch tightened. “And to hopefully get us through while we have to hide.”

Joan considered Donna’s tension for a moment. She was so strained… and there was an easier way, still waiting. “Budge up, then,” she said gently. “Let me see this video. It’s as close as I’ll get to meeting them for a while.”

Donna shifted over in the console chair, pulling her legs up and offering well over half of the chair for Joan to sit in with her if she so chose. The pose was incredibly casual for one being done in full dress, and flashed a quick glimpse of her bloomers under her skirts as she did so. “‘Course. Play the video, love. I could use a refresher anyway.” The last was directed upward.

Joan sat with her, drawing her back into a hug, and watched intently as the John Smith frozen on the screen--no, the Doctor, she had to remember that--leapt into life again. It was so _strange_ to see such energy from someone she had almost always seen as either abstracted and reserved or, lately, intent on Donna and trying desperately not to show it.

“You,” said the Doctor, suddenly still and focused and giving the camera such a _soft_ look. “Don’t let me abandon you.”

Well. Perhaps not so strange or unalike, after all.

And then he began to babble about pears, ruining the sweet mood entirely. Really, the man--well, not a man, she supposed--leapt about from topic to topic like a boy stuffed to the gills with sweets!

The Doctor rambled on. Joan took mental notes. Guard the watch, keep the Doctor from attracting _too_ much attention--at least their little melodrama was entirely contained to town at the moment--try to keep her own brilliance at least vaguely shielded--

Wait.

“ _Generalissimo Hortense?_ ” Joan blurted, and noted dimly that the video had frozen itself again. “The revolutionary heroine of Goritania? The patron saint of women’s suffrage? You’ve -- met her? _Inspired_ her?”

"That's…" Donna's cheeks went pink, and she looked away, smiling. "That's its own adventure."

“One that I shall wish to hear about in _great detail_ later, thank you, but--she rose to power in the 1780s! Does--does the TARDIS travel through _time?_ Like the Jules Verne story?”

"Time and Relative Dimensions in Space." Donna recited, her grin growing. "T-A-R-D-I-S. TARDIS."

“...Really, I don’t know why I’m surprised,” Joan concluded after a moment, and the video started again.

"I need to conspire to make sure he eats pears at some point." Donna mused quietly.

“They’re in season. We can have Jenny pick up some on market day,” Joan promised. “ _And_ I’ll back the TARDIS up in making certain they spoil you properly. At least they grovel prettily.”

"They do rather." Donna gave a softer, sweeter smile, "Bit like a kicked puppy, really."

“It’s some small compensation--” but then the video caught her attention again.

“Don’t let me hurt _you_ ,” the screen-Doctor said, gentle but firm. “John Smith shouldn’t be a bad guy, but I’ve lived long enough to know that ‘Shouldn’t’ is about as solid as dandelion clocks in a hurricane. Protect yourself while I can’t, yeah? Even from me.”

That had Joan seething again. “I know you said he isn’t them, but he broke that the first _week,_ and grievously so.”

"First week." Donna repeated slowly, pursing her lips into a thin line. "He's so painfully _young_."

So young--oh. Oh, dear. And he’d always been reserved and calm in all Joan’s meetings with him, or that she’d heard at all… “Was that the first time he’d been angry in his entire _existence?”_

"I think it might have been." Donna said softly. "Anger _and_ fear, I think. I've seen them angry and afraid before, but never like that. Never so… explosive. Never aiming for the worst target. They get scary, but it's always so controlled."

“And so he has all that potency and none of the experience to temper it,” Joan murmured. “...It’s not an excuse, but I’ll take it into account in future.”

“Try not to break him entirely,” the Doctor advised, and it felt like a reply. Her lips twitched.

"He's…" Donna started, then trailed off. She didn't really need to say it.

_Not them._

The Doctor babbled on, which was its own answer. Though the bit about ‘empty vessels’ was rather pertinent, and Joan would have to store it away for future deployment. And as for this ‘psychic paper’ business--

“--did you actually ever _need_ to show George your references?” Joan wondered. “From the way Jenny had it, you walked in, informed him he was desperately in need of you, and were hired on the spot.”

"I asked him some about the job and what would be expected of me," Donna said, before smiling impishly, "but no, I didn't even have to use the psychic paper at all. Still haven't. I didn't even take it with me, just brought my pen." She was practically preening. "I had enough confidence in my skills as a super temp to get through without. Either to get a job here or in town."

“With good reason! But bring it with you anyway when we go back? It might come in useful, if for no other reason than to head off the Board if they decide to be stuffy.”

"Yeah, I s'pose. But in any case--" the grin grew impossibly more mischievous. "-- _George?_ "

Joan laughed. “Yes, _George._ I’ve known him for twenty years now, we were courting at one time, and most importantly, he was my Arthur’s best friend since they were children.” She could feel her smile grow bittersweet. “He actually offered to marry me, when I was widowed. And he meant it, I think, but… I couldn’t, and I knew it was more about looking after me for the sake of old friendships than anything else. So he offered me the job as Matron instead, and I let him look after me that way.”

"He's a good man." Donna allowed, her smile softening. "Suppose if he didn't have a chance with you after 20 years I certainly had no chance after two weeks, even if you _did_ walk my way." The tease was softened with a smile.

“I--don’t think it works that way,” Joan said, flustered. And now she was _blushing_ again, what was wrong with her today? “I’ve never loved anyone in the way I loved Arthur, and I loved him as much in ten years of marriage as I loved him in the first two weeks of our acquaintance. It was my understanding of the depths that grew as I grew to understand him, not the depths themselves. George is my dear friend, but I can’t imagine myself as his helpmeet.”

And yet she’d agreed to run off with Donna into the unknown merely hours ago, for however long that lasted.

“--But the afternoon must be wearing on,” Joan said quickly. “We should continue.”

Donna gave a small quirk of a grin, but thankfully let that pass without comment. The video started up again once they were both focused on it.

“Don’t let anyone run you down or tell you you aren’t brilliant,” the screen-Doctor chimed in. “And that includes _you._ ”

“Finally, something we agree on!” Joan exclaimed, grateful for the sentiment _and_ the change of subject. “Though I’ll admit they had other good points, I feel this one needs emphasis.”

"Yeah, _yeah_ ," Donna drawled. "I get it, my jerkbrain is a common enemy." She made a 'move along' gesture with her hand.

"Done telling me off yet?" the video smirked.

"I _swear_!" Donna huffed. "I'm being _bullied._ "

“Make sure to make some friends,” the video said cheekily. “You’ll need support.”

Joan giggled. “Was it always like this, or is the TARDIS being editorial? Or is it both?”

"She's being _shirty_." Donna pouted, "Just play it in _order_ , love."

The video moved backwards rapidly. “Done telling me off yet? Eighteen, and I’m probably worrying too much, make sure to make some friends. You’ll need support, and you’re a very social person, and that’s wonderful. Don’t stifle that,” the Doctor instructed.

Joan smirked. “I don’t think she had much editorializing to do.”

"Oh, shut up."

Joan smirked more, and the video continued, “Besides, they might help you keep an eye on me.”

“Done,” Joan said instantly.

Donna startled, looking over at her with a hesitant look. "I didn't-- I wasn't bringing you here to-- I can handle this, you don't have to…"

Seeming to realize that she couldn't argue that point without losing, she sighed instead and leaned her head over onto Joan's shoulder instead.

"I don't deserve you," she mumbled.

“‘Use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping?’” Joan quoted rhetorically. “It’s not a matter of deserving. I chose to care for you, and you for me, and that’s enough.”

"Well fine, if you're going to quote Shakespeare at me." Donna huffed out a laugh into her shoulder. "I would win in that battle, but you at least use weapons I respect."

The TARDIS thrummed pleasantly around them and within their bones again, pulling just a tiny bit more warmth into the control room in comfort.

“I _have_ seen your bookshelf, I’m well aware you’re better armed,” Joan said mildly. “But the cavalry is clearly on my side.”

“Nineteen: It’s gonna be lonely,” the shade of Donna’s friend agreed, and they went on, through advice on comfort and on hiding and a bit of reassurance as to John Smith’s placement and ‘dork’ness, whatever that might mean aside from the necessity of pity, until they reached Rule Twenty-Three and the quiet, fiercely intense Doctor returned for one final warning, and (perhaps more devastating) one more thank-you.

“Well,” Joan said into the expectant silence, “I suppose one should always begin as they mean to go on.”

"Hm?" Donna said softly, glancing up at her through her much loosened bangs. "And how's that?"

“It’s readily apparent that the Doctor needs looking after, and so do you. Clearly this is my audition.”

Donna gave one more faint grin. "Oh, yeah, they're gonna love you." She said, with a wry certainty that almost edged out the sheer fondness in her voice. "I don't think you've got to do too terribly much. You've already passed, just by caring about me."

Joan hugged her closer. “A nurse never leaves the job half-done,” she said firmly. “Now, is there anything you should fetch? We’ve kept the TARDIS awake far longer than you likely meant to, after all, and we should let her sleep.”

"Suppose I ought to grab the psychic paper at least." Donna allowed, reluctantly heaving herself out of the chair again. "And another book or two from the Library. Maybe."

“As long as we’re quick about it,” Joan agreed. “And we can come back next week. A brisk walk after church will raise no eyebrows as long as it’s not too cold.”

"And if we start now then it might not even be questioned when it does get colder." Donna noted, "I think we can save the tour for next week then? I'll just go grab the few things we need and we'll be back up to the school in time for a late tea."

She paused on the way out of the console room to disappear further into the TARDIS, glancing back over her shoulder at Joan. "Joan?" She started softly. "Thank you."

“It’s my pleasure, Donna.” And it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, the right-align bits in the Journal are the Doctor's handwriting;  
> 1.The death of stars.  
> The beauty of endings,  
> hand in hand with beginnings.
> 
> 2\. “There is beauty in the way of things.”  
> She fills the sky with the greatest fireworks of all Creation.
> 
> (the quote is from [There Beneath, by the Oh Hellos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4HR_9sEGh20).)
> 
> Yes, the flowers are symbolic. No, we’re not going to just tell you what that symbolism is. We did make sure to pick it all from one very specific reference, though, which if you care enough we’ll tell you what reference that is. XD
> 
> As to George Rocastle and Arthur Redfern, that's down to Wren robbing the HN novel again and then turning it inside-out and sideways, which is why Joan's husband is Arthur instead of the show-name Oliver, why Rocastle and Arthur are old friends, and where Wren got the 'Rocastle offered to marry Joan' detail, except that they made him I Want My Beloved To Be Happy instead of Repellent Admirer because they're a romantic. As you probably guessed by the tenth chapter of this fic. ♥


	11. i am not as i have been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea. 
> 
> It keeps things civilized.
> 
> (With thanks and apologies to [Phil and Kaja Foglio.](http://www.girlgeniusonline.com/comic.php?date=20160422#.XzdG8OhKitU))

John would always swear afterward that he really _hadn’t_ been looking for excuses to go to the infirmary that Tuesday afternoon.

It was even true; he’d developed what he considered a healthy amount of mild terror of Joan Redfern, and he’d not darken her doorstep lightly, _particularly_ not at teatime; that was when Miss Noble held court. (And he hadn’t eavesdropped on _anyone_ to find out that news; Challpner had made a point of mentioning it at dinner one night, with so casual a mien as to make the merest commonplace ostentatious.)

But he’d had one of his devilish clumsy moments while holding a letter opener, and even then he might have recovered without harm, except _then_ he’d been startled quite badly by an unexpected sight outside his window and tripped over the rug, and, to make a long story short, he’d sliced his palm open far too badly for his own limited medical knowledge to be of any use at all.

So he’d tied it up as well as he could with his handkerchief, and here he was, hesitating on the doorstep and damning himself for a coward.

It was just--

They were chatting so _happily,_ as brightly as they’d been Sunday morning, and really, John couldn’t bear to interrupt.

“--and anyway,” Miss Noble’s voice came from within, around a delighted sort of laugh, “Rudolph was a decent enough bloke, but he wasn’t the first who would’ve seen me six feet under after taking vows. He was at least a bit more subtle about it than _Lance_ was.”

“Lance, hm?” Nurse Redfern returned archly. “Wasn’t he the one you said was cheating on you with a giant spider?”

Which was the most delightful bit of Miss Noble hyperbole John could imagine.

“That’s rather praising your Rudolph with faint damns, in comparison. The Red Queen might have something to say about that.”

“Oh, Lance was doing more than just cheating on me with a giant _spider_ , Joan, he was also _poisoning_ me for six months on her request.”

One of the fabled failed relationships? But--poisoning? Really _poisoning?_

“Wait,” the Matron said, nearly as confused and dismayed as John himself. “Hadn’t you said you’d only known Lance for six months when you were to be married? He was poisoning you at that-- _female’s_ behest from the moment of your _acquaintance?_ ”

“Apparently!” Miss Noble’s voice was just a shade into exasperated and nostalgic, and John could just imagine her throwing her hands up in faux surrender at the absurdity of it. “I thought he was just being sweet, getting me coffee every day! Damn well shocking to find out in the end what he was doing. If they hadn’t been there I would’ve died a really, truly terrible death.”

“Then I’m doubly glad of your friend,” Nurse Redfern said instantly. “Triply, even. And when they come back to you I’ll thank them--” John could just make out a genteel snort. “And only _then_ shall I slap their face for underestimating your devotion to duty and _overestimating_ your capacity to cope.”

“Oi!” Miss Noble barked a laugh around the faux angry sound. “Sod it, I get it, I’ve not got the healthiest of coping tactics. They’ve gotten me this far just fine, though, _thank you_.”

“Thus affirming that God looks after fools and children,” the nurse retorted with an audible grin. “Which accounts for your friend as well, come to think of it.”

“Oh, they’re going to have an absolute _riot_ with you.” Miss Noble’s voice was arch and amused. “I can’t wait to see their face the first time you sling something like that back at them. They won’t know what to do with themself. It’ll be hilarious.”

The Matron hummed smugly. “It’ll be _good for them._ I do pride myself on suiting the physic to the patient.” China rang sweetly. “More tea?”

“Love to,” Miss Noble said, following a quick clatter of porcelain. “But, we’ve got a gent dropping eaves on us, and I think that’s my cue to pack up and let you get back to work, luv.”

John had a moment of admiring the clever wordplay before he parsed that the ‘gent’ in question was _him,_ he’d been somehow detected, and the pleasant interlude was over. He pushed the partly-open door wide with a rueful little cough. “My apologies for my rudeness, Matron, Miss Noble, but you were so animated it felt churlish to interrupt.”

The assessing look the nurse cast him was chiding, but not so much as to actually set John on fire. “That is the entire reason I take tea in the infirmary, Mr. Smith,” she said dryly, “That I might be _on hand_ when people are _bleeding on the floor.”_

Yes, that _was_ rather sensible--wait, on the floor?

John glanced down at the offending hand to find his handkerchief quite soaked. “Oh, damn--apologies again, I really am terribly sorry about my language--”

“Oh, just get _in_ here,” Miss Noble spoke up, biting down on a dry smile as she gathered the tea supplies back onto the tray. “If you’re bleeding that badly then _you_ are the priority here, Mr. Smith, I can take tea with Joan on any day that I like that she doesn’t have a higher priority. I’ll see myself out with the tea things and call for Jenny to get the dripping cleaned up.”

“Yes, of course,” John said rather pointlessly, and was bustled to a seat.

“I’ll tell you more tonight, Joan,” Donna -- no, _too familiar_ \-- Miss Noble said, before turning and pinning him with an almost fond glance that felt like it could pierce straight through him more swiftly than any arrow, let alone any of Cupid’s purported ones. Her eyes were mesmerizing even in fury; having them turned upon him in _fondness_ was… _intoxicating._

“Mind how you go, Mr. Smith.” she murmured.

_~~(for your love is better than wine--)~~ _

John caught his fancy by the throat and crammed it into a dank little corner of his skull, where it might learn better manners.

“I’ll do my utmost, Miss Noble,” he managed to say, and it might be inane, but at least it wasn’t Scriptural love poetry. Though the look he caught from Nurse Redfern told him that his expression must not have been much better.

Miss Noble smiled faintly again, before nodding her head once and turning to leave the room, tea things in tow, and John itched to stop her-- to reach out, to call her back--

But she was gone, and all John could do was sit quietly and cooperate while the Matron tended to his hand. Perhaps they could all leave the situation with their dignity intact.

“Did you have to practice for quite some time to learn that small level of restraint?” Nurse Redfern asked dryly.

Except, of course, that being alone in the infirmary made him a _captive audience._

“Yes,” John said blandly. “I’m very proud.” It was the truth, in a pie-eyed way, and why bother to pretense around the Matron? Her opinion could hardly get--

\--no, no, best not to tempt fate.

“I cherish fond hopes of becoming a reasonable person around her someday,” he said instead.

Nurse Redfern arched one delicate, blonde eyebrow, as though she were saying ‘I doubt that’, but was too polite to actually give it voice. “Is that all?” she mused, pressing antibiotic liquid into a cloth to soak it through before holding out her hand expectantly for his.

He gave it obediently. “I was given permission to try to earn her friendship, Nurse Redfern. She could hardly imagine I’d want to _court_ her, and why should she?”

“Though she might not imagine it, that doesn’t change the fact that you _do_.” the Matron pressed the cloth gently to the edges of the sliced skin, wiping away the now dribbling blood and refolding the cloth each time the spot she was using became too saturated to pick up any more. It stung horribly.

John tried not to whinge about it. He hoped he was more successful at hiding _this_ expression than all the apparent lovelorn looks. “...and?” he dared to ask instead. “I’d think you’d be the _last_ person to want me courting her, after our previous conversation.”

“I have seen little thus far to warrant you getting a free pass on my part, I will grant you that much.” Nurse Redfern pressed the cloth directly over the cut once it had finally slowed its bleeding down to nearly nothing, sending another jolt of pure sting through his hand, but notably not _unkind_ about the necessary pain. “But I will also acknowledge that there are worse candidates more than likely to angle for the chance, given adequate opportunity.”

Worse candidates…? He hissed, more at the realization than the discomfort. “Moffat’s _still_ playing the cad? He’s _married!_ ” He’d been introduced to her after church that first week! ‘My Katherine lives just out of town for the sake of her nerves,’ it was explained. He couldn’t _imagine_ willingly staying away from his chosen spouse for longer than a day's work. To have to spend most of the _week_ away for their health--! John had been _touched_ by his concern for his wife, for Heaven’s sake!

Really, he’d hoped to think better of the man. He was a clever conversationalist with an interesting perspective on historical fiction, if a bit disappointed in his efforts with experimental teaching methods, and John really did think he could persuade him to a cross-class project based on some of Shakespeare’s plays--

\--but a man’s scholarship had little to do with his character, and the few times he’d seen the man interacting with Miss Noble were rather less than reassuring in hindsight. If Moffat was being even more pressing _out_ of public view…

(Y̶̨ǫ̵̚u̷̳͘ ̴̬͆á̵̝r̵̩ẽ̶̞n̸̤̈́'̶̺̈́ţ̵͂ ̸̠̅ẃ̶͖o̵͔͠r̷͚̒t̶̠̐h̶͉͌y̸̹͋.̴͒ͅ

N̵̢͈͐̀o̸͍͇̿̓b̸̜̀̐o̸̫̾̄d̴͕̍̕ý̸̩̂ ̴̟̈́͂i̸̛̻̰š̸̞.̸͈̞̾̿

̷̢͉͍̻̂̋B̵̼̟͙̖̱̄͐̿̊́͘u̵̘̱̹̣̐ẗ̷̮̜̗́ **̴̲̽͊́͆̍h̸̡̰͂͗̒̽e̸̫̩̎̽̐** ̵̹̥̬͊ĭ̸̻̗̹͇͈̋̈́̚ͅs̴̟̃̐̋̓͗̕ ̷̻͗e̷̼̜̙̾̑̓̽͘͜v̶̗̙̥̪͍̾̽̏̔̓̈́e̵͙̜̍͌n̶̖̖͚͛͑ ̷͝ͅl̴̳͒̌̈̕e̴̛̺͈̱̫̞̹͛̿͑̍s̸̠͋̌s̶̡̯̯̥̅ ̶̧̬̞̬̣̈́̋̆̄͝ş̴͙̳̣̗̌͂̇͜o̵̻͖͆̃.̵̢̰̦̼̎̂̿̋)̷͍̖̲͙̓̂͗̓̆

Well, he might respect another man’s ‘territory rights’, if nothing else.

John’s lip curled. As if _anyone_ could claim dominion over Donna Noble!

“I take your point,” he said crisply. If _she_ was telling him anything about the matter, it could only be in the hopes of him _doing something about it._

Nurse Redfern pulled the cloth away from his hand and scooped up a roll of bandaging, pressing a clean bit of torn cloth to the cut to act as a gauze and swiftly unrolling the bandages enough to wrap around his hand a few times and hold it in place. Once she’d deemed her work enough, she cut the end of the bandage and tucked the ending underneath the previous wrap to hold it in place.

“This isn’t to say you are out of the woods,” she said, looking up at him with a steely stare. “The ultimate choice is Donna’s, of course, but I will not assist your endeavors in any way until you prove yourself worthy of this. Worthy of _her_ , and worthy of her regard.”

John looked back steadily, finally feeling able to meet her gaze. “I would expect nothing different, Nurse Redfern.” And how could he not? She loved her just as much as he did, or more, and with far more reason.

Enough of mooning. At least he could say he _tried,_ and if all he managed was to obstruct Lukas Moffat’s campaign to “bring meaning to his life” (enhance his perception of his own virility, more like) at the cost of two women’s misery, well, that in itself would be worth it.

\--

That next day, Wednesday the 24th of September, the boys all marched in step to the courtyard for melee and bayonet practice just after luncheon as they usually did, but there was a sort of buzzing whisper running throughout the corps even as they got geared up. Latimer and Narayan-Singh stuck to the fringe of the group, checking and double checking their practice weapons and that their blunted bayonets were attached correctly, and trying not to be obviously listening to the frisson of gossip.

“--said Hadleigh-Scott had it from Alton that Abbot saw--”

“Thought it was Smythe that saw?”

“No, that was back on Lady Day, this was _last night!”_

“Well, go on, what did Abbot see?”

“Well, he was--” Phipps checked about, furtive, entirely failed to see John where he was standing just around a corner, and went on. “--out in the woods picking something up. _You_ know.”

“Right, yeah. Go on then.”

“Well everybody _knows_ not to go widdershins around that one willow, but you know Abbot, he doesn’t even carry a nail in his pocket. Too modern.”

“Cor help him, one day he’ll learn. Or he won’t.”

“He might’ve this time, way Alton was going on. Hair white as frost!”

“Oh, yeah. Robertson threw a _fit_ over it this morning in class,” Cameron rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I’m surprised he only got away with joining the houseworkers in scrubbing down the pantry, getting caught out like that. Think Robertson must’ve taken pity on him for what he’d already lost. He did have a rather nice caramel color, y’know. Before.”

“Guess he remembered his manners--he came back at all, and on the same day he started.”

“If it’s really him, anyway. Has anyone done the nail test?”

“Alton’s got him for exercises, said he’d do it then.”

“So until then we just stay sort of polite to him.” Cameron huffed. “If he passes we’re dunking his head in the water barrels, maybe we can wash out some of the fluff in his ears and make sure he _listens_ to the basic rules again. He’d’ve gotten _lucky_ , and you don’t get _lucky_ twice with the neighbors.”

“Too right--look sharp, Captain’s looking this way,” Phipps said hastily, and they hurried on, leaving John frowning after them. Of _course_ the boys would keep contraband out in the woods, and of _course_ they’d run into trouble. Perhaps they needed to make the next OTC a review on basic safety precautions? The backstop was still under construction...

T̸̺̬̪͔͗̏̽͝o̷̙̎͊͗o̸̫̪͗̌ ̴̩͗̎̈̿̅͝͝ṁ̸̨̧̭̼̘͕̱͂̀͝â̴̦̻̺̬̳̼͘ͅn̴̲̠͓̝̘̞͐̚y̶̻̰̮͖̻͛͒̅ ̸̟̝͚̺̖͚̈́̈́̃̔̾͌s̴̨̟̃̉͌̋͗h̵̥͖͙̑́̆̽ā̶͎͗ͅd̵̺͝o̶̢͛̓̈́w̸̢̛̳̺̹̬̃̈̇ ̵̢̥͕̑̿̓͋l̷̨̬̞͓̺̙̫͗͊͊̈́̏ǘ̵̲̱͎̭̠̫͍͗r̴̦̓̔̊̂̾k̴̖̩̦̪͐̉̔̇e̵̯̿̅͑̿̋̚͝r̴̨̲͉̻̠̜̕ͅs̷̢͈̲̞̰̳̃̽̋ ̸̞̙̚͠ͅd̸̩̹̀ọ̴͌͛̌̚͝ͅ ̵͉͉̪͙́̍l̸̨̜̫̱̝̮͑̾̃͂͑͝ǫ̶̣̼̻̠̞̟̍̄́̿̆͝v̸̢͖̗̉͑̕͝ě̸̘̞̏ͅ ̴̧̯̠̞͈̠͕̄͌̏å̵͎̯̐͛̆͠ ̵̨̝̥͊͊̓͌ͅb̵͖̫͖͊͗͂̌͗͘a̴͓̾͒̏͒̇t̶̨̼̬̤̣̼̺͊̍͌̕͘ţ̷̠͚͉̭͈̔͋͠͝l̴̻͈̻̪͉̒̅̃̊͠é̶̢̺̙͈͈̈́͐̎̊͌f̴̧̛͖̳̥̥͕̗̈̂ĭ̸̥̤e̵̘̜̎̌͂͑͗͝ͅl̵̤̼̠̳̪̑͘ͅͅd̴̤͓͖̃̇̆͊.̴̩̾̒̔̀

“He’ll survive the lesson, sir,” someone said, and John turned to find Latimer and Narayan-Singh just behind him. “But it’s probably still a good idea,” Latimer continued with a face more abstracted than thoughtful.

“Tim,” Narayan-Singh hissed, “We shouldn’t interrupt the Professor’s train of thought.” He straightened to give John an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sir, we’ll just be going. It wouldn’t do to be late for training.”

“No,no, he didn’t do anything wrong,” John said hastily. “But yes, off with you before you’re late.”

“Good luck, sir,” Latimer added over his shoulder as Narayan-Signh grabbed his arm to tow him away. “Try chicken livers, she’ll love them.”

“ _Tim,”_ said his friend in tones of despair, but they went on.

P̵͖a̸͍̒ȓ̴̻t̷̨̾i̵̫̔c̵̟̄u̶̬͠l̶̹̏a̸̱̽ṙ̸̹l̶̝̂y̵̦̍ ̶͚̀a̸̠͝b̸̘̕s̷̹̕t̶̞͂ŗ̵͛a̶̻͌c̶̹͐t̶̝͘ ̶̗̚t̶̙͘o̶̘͑d̶͓͂a̶̤͑ý̸̨,̶̢̂ ̵͕̈p̸̻̅o̷̤͠ö̶̰́ȓ̵̦ ̴̫͐k̸̛̖i̵̜̅d̴͆͜.̴͙̽ ̵̞͠Ä̶̹t̵̹͛ ̸͈̀l̶͙͋ẽ̵͈ą̸̾ș̷̓ṱ̴̕ ̵͙̀h̷̹͝e̴̓ͅ’̵̧͊s̶̲̓ ̶̞͑c̷̫̅ḧ̵̳́e̴͐͜ȅ̵̠r̷̳̕f̵̭̊u̶͈̇l̶̝̐.̷̰̕

John shook his head-- _woolgathering again--_ and made his own way up to his office.

\--

John still wasn’t lurking. He had a perfectly legitimate errand for Jenny that had absolutely nothing to do with Donna Noble, and he’d happened to catch her in the corridor near the infirmary, that was all.

Just before teatime.

_I don’t even believe me, and I’m telling the truth!_

“Oh yes, sir, we’ve plenty of that,” Jenny said, speaking a little loudly to be heard over the din of students fresh from what must have been a particularly distracted bayonet training. She was far too disciplined to ask _but why on earth would you want such a thing?_ , but she looked it.

John permitted himself a conspiratorial little smile. “Excellent. Please bring it up to--”

The flood of boys into the infirmary was briefly stemmed by a redheaded figure making her way back out. “I’ll come back and check on you later, shall I? You’ll _need_ a cuppa after this lot— Oi, single file, we’re not in kindergarten here, gents— oh, thank you Smythe. No, no I’ve got it now, don’t put too much weight on that until the Matron has looked at it.” She lifted the tray of tea things a little bit higher over the crowd of boys getting much more organized under her watchful eye, having just been spared dropping it due to Smythe’s quick eye and quicker reflexes. The sight of it cut through the fog in his thoughts, and John’s brain began to work again.

Of _course_ a bad bayonet training would leave Nurse Redfern with an entire troop of patients, and of _course_ she’d be far too busy to take tea with Miss Noble, and just maybe--

“Miss Noble?” he ventured into a sudden hush, and oh no, it would be all over the school by dinner, but it was too late to stop and he didn’t _want_ to. “Would you care to join me for tea?”

The silence stretched horribly.

“That is, it would be a shame for it to go to waste, and I was hoping--” too many things, this was a terrible idea, what had he been _thinking--_

“Actually,” Miss Noble hummed, “that sounds like a lovely idea.”

John was horribly certain he was grinning like the boys all around them, and even more certain that he didn’t give a damn. “Capital!” He turned back to Jenny. “And two helpings of that new tart, when you’ve a moment.”

“Of course, sir,” Jenny said, eyes twinkling. Yes, John _was_ a comic figure, but he was a _lucky_ one.

He turned back to Miss Noble. “Shall I carry that for you? My office has a lovely view of the gardens, if that would suit you…”

“I think I ought to be able to handle the tea tray,” she said, not unkindly. “You’ve rather displayed a misfortune for dropping things as of late.”

“Well, I--” he reached up to rub the back of his neck, saw the bandage from yesterday, and laughed ruefully. “Caught out, I’m afraid.” And he couldn’t even offer her his arm, her hands were full!

But she’d said yes, and that was the most important thing.

“I’ll just have to make myself useful holding doors for you,” John decided. “And breaking the path a bit,” he added after a moment, giving a pointed look at the more daring portions of the crowd. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen.”

There was a chorus of ‘Yes, sir’s and even more cheeky grins, and even a smattering of muffled snickers, but the boys did at least make way for oncoming traffic. John put on his best unruffled air and led the way.

The crowd rapidly dropped off as they got further into the main corridor, and by the time they reached the stairs it had thinned entirely, letting John walk at Donna’s--at _Miss Noble’s_ elbow.

“I hope your day has been pleasant aside from that disappointment,” he ventured.

She peered at him from the corner of her eye, a trace of a smile forming on her lips, as though she could practically hear her given name thrumming in the back of his mind, fiddling with the chains of propriety keeping him from using it, angling to slip out of him at the first inattentive opportunity.

“It’s been quite fun in some cases.” Donna -- _Miss Noble, damn it all_ \-- said, starting her way up the stairs with the tea tray balanced between both hands. “Watching all of the boys in a tizzy of gossip this morning when I stopped into the refectory to grab something to eat on the go was… an experience I haven’t lived myself in years, but _oh_ , it did throw me back. Shame on Abbott, though. He ought to have known better, at least know _where_ the local neighbors like to show up,” her smile dropped into a thoughtful frown, “but ah, well. He’ll be more careful in the future.”

“About trespassing?” John wondered, matching her pace. “Certainly he was out of bounds, and violating curfew to boot, but I was under the impression the woods were part of the common.”

They reached the landing in time for her to pause and peer at him questioningly, an odd look on her face. “Well, in a sense, yes, but there’s… well, there’s the unspoken territory lines, of course. It’s all fine as long as you follow the usual rules, you know?” She looked rather like she was gauging his response, studying his face, making sure he _did_ know… and looking mildly alarmed when she realized he didn’t.

“Oh,” she said softly, “Oh, right. You _don’t_ know.”

John put together the children’s alarm, _Miss Noble’s_ alarm and dismay, and the odd concern about nails and modernity and hair turning white and got--

O̴͍͗h̶̖̆ ̴̨̊ñ̶̝ö̸́ͅ.̴̯̈

̸͕̐I̸̟̍ ̶̵̧͖̭̭̖̱͈͕̍̎̓̈̍̓̓̅̈͜f̷̞͎̠͕̦̯̭̱̃͒ͅơ̵̗̬͘r̴̜͎̈̉̇̕͝g̵͇̣̩̗̙̑̔͋̊̍ö̴̬͎̮̘̙͈͙͖̌̋̈́̕t̷̢̧͍̙̄̽͐̈.̶͉̜͖͐͛̇́

\--well.

Perhaps he wasn’t so daft to call Miss Noble the Faerie Queen after all, though it might be a trifle _dangerous._

“...I think it best if you explain that in more detail in my office,” he said quickly. “Perhaps things are different in Nottingham.”

“Perhaps.” She allowed, and they started walking again, though her expression had changed from confusion through concern to furious calculation. She looked like she was trying to figure out some sort of immediate fix to this apparent problem that he found himself in.

They reached his office doors in relative silence, with only the sound of the tea tray clinking with their steps between them, and continued until they were settled in his good armchairs, with the tea poured.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to proceed on the assumption that I know nothing relevant to the subject,” he began. “I consider myself fairly well-read, but I had no idea there were parts of the country where the … ‘neighbors?’ ...were an actual…” he considered his wording and settled on “Factor.”

“They…” Miss Noble bit slightly at her lip, thinking for a moment. “The Gentry doesn’t— they keep to their own spaces, mostly, and leave us be if we follow the right precautions, just… it’s something to be mindful of, mostly, especially out in the country proper, or so close to the hills. Greener plains and all that. I…” She chuckled a bit. “I’m not used to explaining this.”

"It's something everyone grows up knowing, then?" John guessed. "How would you tell a child?"

“I don’t want to seem as though I’m talking down to you,” she immediately demurred. “Just… hm. Basic things, really. Always be polite to them, but don’t agree to things they want if you can help it. Be careful of particularly smart animals. Carry iron that’s pure and leave out cream for their helpfulness. Don’t eat or drink anything they offer you, but don’t spurn their hospitality entirely, and don’t offer anything of yourself that you’re not ready and willing to lose forever.”

He took a moment to parse this. “...So all the stories and ballads are _cautionary tales?_ That … makes a good deal of sense, actually. But what was that about going widdershins around a willow? And the boys spoke of giving Abbot the ‘nail test.’”

“Widdershins— that is to say, counterclockwise— is… I’m not sure how to explain it but it’s sort of _unnatural_ in the grand scheme of things, it sort of calls out to the unusual when done in some places, like a sign saying ‘I’m tired of the way things are and would like a bit of strangeness’.” Miss Noble hums thoughtfully, running a finger around the edge of the tea in the cup. “Same concept as knowingly walking under tree arches or up abandoned stairways in the forest, or into perfect circles of flowers and mushrooms, things that don’t happen _normally_ in nature, you’re just… essentially calling out to the strange and saying _here I am_.” She paused to lick the tea off of her finger and take a proper sip, “And the nail test is just what it sounds like. You take a nail of trusted iron and hold it, or have the person you’re testing hold it. Iron repels the Gentry, it burns them, so it’s a way to test for changelings, if they refuse the iron you know to be a bit more careful around them.”

John nodded slowly. He _had_ seen references to fairy circles, and the ‘widdershins’ description wasn’t unfamiliar. “Seeking entry to the Goblin Market, I suppose,” he mused over his tea. “Was the willow itself particularly special in that case, or just the direction he was walking? And under what circumstances is the test normally done?”

“I don’t want to say the willow was special from any other particular willow other than that it became favored by a neighbor,” she hedged. “It’s not that all trees _are,_ but more just, any tree _could be_. It’s more the fact that he walked around a willow that was a known... favored tree... and walking widdershins was knocking on the door. He has no excuse to be surprised that the neighbor answered the knock. He’d have gotten tested because of a known encounter, but the test can be done for most suspicions. A quick exchange of iron upon meeting new people if you’re in an area with high activity, someone goes on a trip out of town for a while and you test them when they get back, or the like.”

That too made sense; if there was a high incidence of encounters, then naturally there would be more chance of replacement or interference, and humans would have little defense except vigilance. “Is it always a nail, and are people suspicious for _not_ carrying iron?”

“It’s any kind of iron, it’s just been easier to get ahold of iron nails in recent centuries? So most people have a nail or two. I’ve got a bracelet myself, not as elegant looking as Anand’s— Narayan-Singh’s, I mean.” She tucked a hand into her breast pocket and tugged out a simple chain bracelet to show him. “And… kind of? At best you get labeled as iron aversive. And people are just… more wary of that.”

Not the Faerie Queen after all.

But it had only ever been a metaphor and flight of fancy; there was no harm in it as long as he kept it in his own head, right?

“I’ll have to get some, I suppose--”

There was a tap at the door.

“Just a moment,” he excused himself, and went to answer it. And yes, there was Jenny, with a very full tray and an encouraging (if somewhat cheeky) grin.

~~(there was something of pain in that, but it was a gentle pain)~~

“Thank you, Jenny,” he said quickly past the brief fizz of static, and took the tray. “That’ll be all.”

Most of the tray went on his desk for later, but the slices of tart he took for their more immediate enjoyment. “The pear harvest has been especially good this season, and they’ve more than they know what to do with down in the kitchen, I’m told,” he explained as he took his seat. “I thought we could try Cook’s new recipe.”

“Pears?” Miss Noble’s eyes took on a wild, delighted gleam to them, “There’s lucky. I’ve been meaning to get some.”

Oh now that _was_ a stroke of luck. “All the better, then! I have high hopes for this, they’re caramelized and Cook’s pastry is always excellent. Would you like cream on yours?”

“A bit. And a bit of sugar?” She picked up one of the two plates and accepted the small canister of sugar and the little pitcher of cream with a careful, effortless sort of grace.

 _Stop staring,_ John told himself firmly, and busied himself with his tea.

But soon she was done, and he could take his own turn with the cream.

N̵̠̂o̶̺͝n̴̖͆o̷̯̔ṉ̷̈ô̷̮n̷̜̽o̷̜̒n̵̠͆o̴̤ ̸̻̎n̶̑͜o̵̲͒t̵̛͎ ̶͚̉ṯ̴͋h̸͍̔e̴̥̍ ̶̱̓p̵͚͠ë̷͇́a̴͔͒r̴̮̎s̸͍̎ ̸̫̎n̸͈͋o̸̯̓t̵̺͆ ̵̣̉t̷͚̒h̶͚̅e̵͓͐ ̴̮͊p̴͍̚e̵̜̍a̴̡̕r̸̥͑s̵̳͛ ̶̝͑

̸̩͘Ẅ̶̰H̸͙̓Y̷̻̾ ̷͍̾d̸̻̔i̷̜͋d̵̗̑ ̴̗̒ị̷̿t̷̡̎ ̶̨̐h̷͔̅ä̶̮́v̶̚͜e̵͛͜ ̶͇͊t̶̮͆ō̵̩ ̴͈̉b̶̹̈ĕ̶̬ ̵̜̕t̶̺́ḣ̵ͅȇ̷͇ ̸͓̒ṕ̸̢e̴̲ä̶̰́r̸̲͑ş̷̒ ̷̺̔

And then, at _last,_ his first bite.

I̴̛̲͓̫̟’̶͓̙̹̘̒͌l̵̮̥͓̼͌͠l̶̢͉̻̒͜͝ ̷̨̛͖̺̦̪̂͋̅b̴̧̖̍̓e̷͉͉͐ ̵͕͎͉͉͈̒̉̊t̴̛͍͛̾̋ͅǎ̵̺s̴̹̤̭̙͔̅́̾̋͝t̸̛̞̹͍̝̬͊͆̐͠i̴͓̔̎͐͝n̵̝̠̖͎͚̂̀g̴̳̠̜̅̆͂ ̶͙̀͆͆̎t̷̠͍͚͆̌̚̚͜h̴͖̾̓a̴̼̞̞̲͆t̶̩͙̽̾ ̴̼̱̾͐̈́f̵̧̹̲̯̤̅̉͠o̶̜̝̤̔ͅr̴͖̈̋͘ ̵̩͔͇̼̫̌͘͝M̸̰͙̙̱͙͛̃͛̓̽O̴͕͖̠̗̔N̶̙͈̈́T̴̙͉͚͔͕̓H̸̰̼̼͉̲̓̇͂̈́Ş̸̹̤̚ ̷̳̍̚

John hummed happily. _Delicious_.

D̵̰͚̮̺̣̠̟͕̆̋̈́̀͐̑́ơ̶̜̫̲̏ņ̶̧̞̫͎̮̕n̸̘̯̑̂̾a̶̛͙̰͂̈̋̀

̸̧̧͉̜̱̣̲̈͑̄͂̈́ŵ̶̳̠͚͚͙ḙ̷̠͎̝̓͋r̸̪̜̜̆̚͘e̷̮̓͌ͅn̴̥͛́͘’̵̛͖̋̇́ț̷̹̹̆̒̈͝ ̸̹̻͔͇͚͈͌̄͐͋͋͌y̴̼̜̯̪̫̣͊̔̕͝ŏ̴̧͙̄͘ͅư̴̞͕͔͚̪͌̕͝ ̷̧̥̦́̎͆̋͆̓̒L̶̨̺̻͖͋͋̋̒̽͌̕Ĭ̴̜̯̙̓̅̚̚S̸̫̙̗̟̪̪̗̝͑̑͒͌͘̕T̸̫̲͋͊̓̍̈́̐͋E̸͉͎̒̚N̴̢̰̦̙͉̬̭̟͊I̵͚̋̂N̶͎̙̫̣̽̈͛̾̈͋̇̚G̵̲͉͚̽͋

(.ʇɘiʜT,ƨiʜɈ bɘnɿɒɘ ɘv’υoγ Ɉυd ,ƨɒw ɘʜƨ ɘƨɿυoɔ ʇO || Of course sʜe wɑs, but you’ve eɑrned tʜis,Tʜief.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
>  **PEARNISHMENT**   
>  _
> 
> a dish best served with schadenfreude and cream
> 
> Zalgospeak:  
> 1\. You aren't worthy.  
> Nobody is.  
> But **he** is even less so.
> 
> 2\. Too many shadow-lurkers do love a battlefield.
> 
> 3\. Particularly abstract today, poor kid. At least he's cheerful.
> 
> 4\. Oh no.  
> I forgot.
> 
> 5\. Nonononono not the pears not the pears  
> WHY did it have to be the pears
> 
> 6\. I'll be tasting that for MONTHS
> 
> 7\. Donna  
> weren't you LISTENING


	12. doth not the appetite alter?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> doth not the appetite alter? a man loves the meat  
> in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.  
> Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of  
> the brain awe a man from the career of his humour?  
> \--Much Ado About Nothing, Act II, scene iii

...Well.

That certainly wasn’t the reaction she’d expected at all. She’d figured that since he looked like them that most things had stayed the same, at least where they could be spared, like the taste buds, but he seemed pleased as punch to be eating something pear based.

Donna took a moment to swat the surging disappointment down, looking down at her teacup and smiling ruefully to herself. She wasn’t sure why she kept expecting him to be like them; for every way that he was there were four and five ways that he wasn’t. She needed to get ahold of herself and stop tripping over that realization over and over again.

John Smith wasn’t the Doctor. And she couldn't keep holding him to that standard, that’d only end in heartbreak for both of them.

“You could have my bracelet, if you like,” she said absently, in response to his comment about getting a bit of iron for himself, her hand creeping up to clutch at the watch again without her thinking about it. “I have a backup iron piece.”

She didn’t, not really. She wasn’t sure what the fob watch was made of, but she could lie about it being iron until she got a proper backup. Better to protect him, the Gentry already had a grudge against the Doctor.

He blinked at her, startled out of his pear bliss. “Oh, no, I couldn’t ask that of you, it must have sentimental value--”

“Nothing so grand or important.” _Not as important as protecting you, anyway._ “Just a simple iron chain, really.”

He bit his lip, giving her a look that was so very much the Doctor’s puppy eyes that it hurt all over again. “...if you’re certain, I’d be very grateful for the favor.”

In answer, she simply put the chain on the table between them, before pulling her hands back to herself and focusing her gaze on her tea and tart again. _I can’t keep letting that hurt the way it does,_ she thought distractedly. The Doctor wasn’t gone forever, just until this whole mess blew over. Being sour at John Smith for who he wasn’t was just _not fair to him_.

“Better to ensure safety than cling to something sentimental anyway.” She said, and wasn’t entirely sure she was still talking about the bracelet.

He just looked at her for a moment, searching her face--for sincerity? For resolve? How perceptive was he, so young and so full of contradictions?--but at last he smiled sadly, and reached for the bracelet, picking it up with as much care as if it were something quite fragile and precious, instead of good iron.

“I’ll treasure it in your place.”

She offered a rueful grin, before dropping her gaze again, taking a quick bite of her tart to buy a few precious seconds of not having to respond to that unbearably earnest look -- of all the things for him to have in common, he had to display it right as she was trying to come to terms with the fact that _he wasn’t them_.

A soft clink told her he was trying the bracelet against his wrist, determining it would never fit, and then tucking it into his inner breast pocket. Against his (single) heart.

He too returned to his tart, and they ate in silence for a while before he cleared his throat. “This might seem an odd question,” he said tentatively, “But do you mind cats?”

 _I’ve only chosen to live with one,_ She thought, rather abstractly, reminded of the Doctor’s fair few oddities and catlike behaviors up to and including purring on rare occasions. “I… can’t say I do,” She tilted her head towards him. “Why?”

He perked up instantly, which made him look more like one of the boys than their professor. “Well, if we aren’t too noisy or startling, we might be lucky,” he said, heading for the desk and the window beyond it, which looked out over the gardens. Most of the view was of a rather gloriously spreading oak tree, and he opened the window wide to it, and then set two bowls out on the sill.

“And now,” he said, returning to his seat, “we wait. She’s usually in the tree around this time.”

Donna was by no means a genius, but she was sensible enough to put together ‘do you mind cats’ and ‘she’s usually in the tree’ to figure out what he was implying. She bit down on a smile, hiding it around the edge of her tea cup, deciding that she was allowed to very privately think, _okay, I’ll bite, that’s cute._

“How long have you been courting her?” she asked blithely.

John turned bright red. “Oh, well. A week now? She startled me yesterday by actually _taking_ any of the food, so I’m afraid I startled her back by tripping over the rug and dropping my letter opener, which is how I came to interrupt you and Nurse Redfern.”

“How’s your hand, by the by?” Donna asked, eyeing the bandaging still wrapped around his palm. “I forgot to ask.”

“Oh, mending quite well,” he assured her blithely. “I’m a quick healer, which is likely how I’ve survived being so clumsy--oh shh, shh, that’s her now.”

‘She’ was a cat, all right, a calico in the closest bough of the tree, eyeing the dishes warily.

“She’s about half-grown, I think,” he murmured. “Her paws and legs are far too big for the rest of her, poor soul, which makes being an outdoor cat very difficult... still a bit young to be away from her mother, really.”

Donna let her eyes drift over to watch the animal, keeping a cotton-soft sort of wariness to herself. If it _was_ just a cat then it wouldn’t do to startle her, but one could never be too--

After considering for a moment longer, the cat crouched, sprang for the windowsill--and missed spectacularly.

...careful.

 _Definitely_ just a cat. Even a cunning Neighbor would rather cease existing than be _that_ undignified.

She couldn’t stop the small snort that sent tea up her nose.

John hissed, far too caught up in his cat’s plight to notice her indignity. “Oh, not again, you did so _well_ yesterday--” He craned his neck. “Oh, good recovery! Must’ve pushed off the wall and caught the trunk, here she comes again.”

Donna hurriedly grabbed for one of the napkins, shaking around the laughter bubbling in her throat and the stinging of the hot tea in her nostrils as she tried to fix the mishap. Her eyes were watering but she couldn’t bring herself to be bothered by the pain. _Cor, that’s hilarious._ It was also… kind of charming, to see him focusing so intently on something else for once.

The calico made it back to the bough, clearly too intent on the prospect of food to care about her dignity. She did move closer this time, at least.

“Come on, love,” John was muttering. “You can do it, and then it’s a whole bowl of chicken liver, just for you…”

Donna blew her nose as surreptitiously as one could, given that it was an action that simply couldn’t be done with dignity. If she was lucky he’d be too focused on their under-expected guest to notice.

The cat was trying again. Crouch, anticipatory wriggle, _leap--_

\--scrabble on the sill frantically with her back legs as she clung with her front claws--

\--and finally haul herself up and stable.

John made a motion like an extremely abbreviated air-punch. “Only took two tries today!” he whispered proudly.

“Bless her.” Donna said softly back, folding her napkin over so that she could dab at the tears in her eyes with a clean spot. “Poor thing looks like she’s been stretched and squashed.”

“Growing like a weed and living on what she can hunt,” he sighed. “It’s not a good combination.” The cat was now ears-deep in the food bowl. “And as far as I can make out? She’s _terrified_ of birds.”

Donna took another careful sip of her tea, “Not much of a cat, at that.” she mused, smiling around the edge of her cup again.

John pouted at her.

He was _actually pouting._

She was going to laugh at _him_ next if he didn’t stop being such a--

_Twenty one! About the only thing I’m sure of is that John Smith will be a **dork.**_

“You needn’t be so mean,” he said, with slightly fake indignation. “It just means she’d be much better off as an indoor cat, it doesn’t make her _lesser._ ”

How different. In the back of her mind she couldn’t help but recall the time that she’d seen the Doctor get into an argument with a cat, making furious little chirping noises at it near the end, and then tossing a snarking complaint to _her_ that cats might be better telepathic conversationalists but-- _what was that weird swear they did? Rassi… something or other_ \-- they were very _adamant_ that they _did not like cats._

And here was John, not only defending one but very obviously enamored. It was adorable.

“Alright, alright,” and there was laughter in her voice that she couldn’t quite swallow down, mirth that demanded to be made known. “She’s _not_ a failure of a cat. Much.” She pressed onward before he could pretend to get any more het up with her. “So is that your plan, then? Wooing her into being an indoor cat?”

The ‘indignance’ lasted until ‘much,’ at which point he had to snort and drop the pretense for a grin. “More or less. Next step is putting the bowls on my desk instead of the windowsill. I already have a sandbox ready for her, and I spoke to Mrs. Windrush about it, too--Robertson has a parrot, as it happens, and Denman has a corn snake. Sometimes it hides in his beard and moustache. So as long as I keep a good eye on her and warn the maids not to come in unexpectedly, she’ll be fine.”

“Have you thought of a name?” Donna asked, snatching a biscuit from the tin in between them both, splitting her attention between watching the voraciously eating catling and John’s almost vibrating excitement as he explained his plans.

“Not yet,” he demurred. “I want to get a better idea of her personality first. ‘The naming of cats is a difficult matter,’ you know.”

“Well, she’s certainly an elegant little lady full of _grace and composure_.” Donna snickered.

He huffed ruefully. “That’s one way to put it. But she’s oddly magnificent, don’t you think? How she keeps trying. _Meow_ gnificent, even.”

_Bloody hell, he does puns. What a dork!_

“Oh, don’t--” Donna laughed, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth, “That’s so _bad_.”

This only seemed to encourage him. “I’d go so far as to say it’s _purrfect._ _Paws_ -itively lofurly--? And I should stop before you murder me, shouldn’t I?”

“Mmm, contemplating murder,” she teased, “Also contemplating just dumping what’s left of my tea on your head and leaving.”

“That’s fair,” he allowed modestly. “I’ll restrain the urge before I become too annoying…” he paused. “Though, you know, I did first notice her because she was batting that leafy twig against my window and it was becoming annoying?”

“ _Grace and composure_.” Donna snorted again, though this time with blessedly less tea going up her nose. “She _is_ a rather perfect match for you, then. When can I expect the wedding invite?”

John had to put a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise of his own laughter. “Bite your tongue!” he snickered, checking the sill--but, really, the cat was clearly too hungry to be bothered by two humans so far away. “A christening would be far more appropriate. You can stand as godmother to Her Ladyship the Annoying Meowgnificence.”

“Oh, no, _no_ \--” she tilted her head back in an exaggerated show of dismay, though it was a bit ruined by the fact that she still wanted to _giggle_ of all things. “You’re _not_ allowed to call her that, that’ll become her _name_.”

“And why not? I’m becoming rather fond of it,” he said merrily. “We can call her Her Ladyship, for short.”

“What’s this _we_ nonsense, I want nothing to do with this.” She set down her teacup, and decided that she could do with a refill before she set in on her own tart properly. She _had_ lost an unfortunate amount of it up her nose.

“It was a general ‘we’,” he promised. “Speculating aloud, I assure you. More tea?”

“You read my mind.” she teased, “I was just about to ask.”

John shrugged, pouring. “You set down your cup and eyed the pot, it was hardly a matter for Holmes.”

“True, though Conan Doyle is much less pretentious about Sherlock than you would think. Interesting man, excellent party host.”

“You’ve met him?” There went the hypermobile eyebrow. “I’m in august company, then, not that I doubted it. I suppose it’s not surprising, though, the lack of pretension--he _did_ kill him off for ten years and only bring him back under protest.” He didn’t refresh his own cup, though it was empty.

“He all but hated the character at that point, as I recall.” Donna snickered, shaking her head. “Cor, but that encounter _was_ fun. We met him in a downright terrible mood, it was rather entertaining in its own right.”

“Well you can’t just leave off _there,_ elucidate!” John laughed. “Particularly since our other visitor is leaving and we needn’t be quiet anymore, not that we were terribly good at it.” He paused. “Come to that, who was the other party or parties in that ‘we’, who got to meet him too?”

Donna skipped a look over to the window in time to see the cat — _Her Ladyship_ , apparently — finishing off cleaning her furry little face from the chicken liver sticking to her whiskers, then turning tail and hopping back out to scramble at the tree branches again. She had to force her mind to restart, to get over the freeze, the feeling as though she had somehow slipped up. It was one thing to tell Joan all about everything, Joan had gotten all but vetted by the TARDIS, and what was the TARDIS if not as good as the Doctor themself? Telling _John_ about them felt somehow… _taboo._

“Ah, um. Just… a friend, I’ve been traveling with. We had to part ways for a bit.” She managed a faint, unbearably fond smile, “They’re a right prat sometimes. Got into a verbal argument with Mr. Conan Doyle when we forced them to _rest_ for a week, complaining that they were _bored_ , and about the fragility of civilization, the role of women in society, Roman Catholicism versus English Protestantism… oh, and, then-modern germ theory and why Lamarckism was completely stupid. Couldn’t get them to bloody shut up. Had to sit on top of them just to keep them in bed.”

He blinked at her for a moment, then began to snicker. “Your friend sounds like quite the character, if a bit tiring to put up with.” His voice softened. “You must miss them very much.”

She could practically feel the way her expression softened and grew heavy with the weight and gravity of the universe that hung around her neck. A hand crept up without her permission to press the watch under her blouse more firmly into her breastbone despite of it. “As one would miss breathing.” She admitted.

_And it isn’t fair to you in the least._

“Have you been married long?”

.

.

.

.

For a moment, Donna’s mind refused to work. She blinked at him, uncomprehending, before managing a weak, uncertain smile.

“Oh, no, no, I’m not— we’re not.”

And how weird was it that this conversation seemed to keep happening? How much weirder when she had to say it to the face that was so often right there denying it with her?

“No, I… you were accurate in your… assessment.” She swallowed, and looked down at her cup instead of at him, “I’m not married.”

He choked. “Miss Noble, if you mean what I said to you on the stairs that was so far from accurate as to be _ludicrous_ and I never meant to refer to it in any way, I promise you that. I only meant--you care for them so much, you _miss_ them so much, how are you _not?_ Even if it’s...” he paused, clearly searching for a balance between fact and delicacy, “...forbidden, there are … well, one _hears_ things…”

“No, it’s— it’s not that, I only meant that you were right, we’re really just not married.” She shook her head. “They’re the best mate I’ve ever had, the kind that you can’t imagine the way your life would’ve gone without them, but… nothing— romantic, between us.” A rueful grin managed to form on her lips. “If they asked me to set the world ablaze for them I would.” Though, the mere thought of it made her have to laugh: “not that they’d ever.”

John gave her another of those long, considering looks. “They don’t have any idea, do they?”

“That’s who they are.” She shrugs. “I don’t think they realize what they are to people. How much people are willing to give up for them.” Her voice softened. “How much they’re worth it.”

“I don’t think you realize, either,” he said softly. “How important you’ve already become to --” his lips quirked wryly. “To people here. I’m sorry that you’re apart from your friend, but we’re very grateful to borrow you for a little while.”

 _You just censored yourself,_ she thought, taking another bite of tart and noting the tiny stumble in his words. _Why?_

“And we can at least provide company and a distraction, I hope. If only by making fun of me and my cat, hm?”

_Oh._

_**Oh**._

She swallowed the bite of tart she had in her mouth, feeling suddenly rather like she had tripped and was in the process of careening toward the ground. He _wasn’t_ talking about the school in general, was he?

Oh, no.

Mrs. Hodges might have been… right.

That… complicated things.

“Well,” She managed, a bit stilted, “you do make it rather easy.”

His lips quirked further. “Oh, I’m certain. But I hope there are other positive aspects. An attentive audience, for instance--how did you meet Conan Doyle in the capacity of physician and not author?”

“Oh, erm. That’s. That is to say…” She coughed, thinking back to that impromptu ‘adventure’, to the Doctor tripping and rolling down a short set of stairs and to her finding out they’d been awake for roughly four days straight… or as straight as one could get, in the vortex. “... my friend sort of literally collapsed on his front stoop.”

John _sporfled._ That was really the only possible word for the poorly-stifled _ha!_ that exploded from under his muffling hand. “They sound worse than me for getting into accidents, then!”

“To their _credit_ , they’re usually quite good at getting themself _out_ of situations like that.” Donna did her best to look prim and disapproving, but she knew her lip was quivering with the urge to smile. It was a little alarming, just how relaxing just sitting with him was, talking and laughing and not… at odds.

He could see it, too, by the way his eyebrows lifted. “Except this time?”

“Except this time.” She lost the battle against her own grin.

He grinned back, all teeth and delight. “Did you find out _why?_ It must have been bad if it kept the poor thing in bed for a _week._ ”

“They apparently _forgot_ to _sleep_ for — hang on, let me do the math on this.” She put her tea down and started tapping at her fingers, murmuring multiples of 12 under her breath. “12, 24, 36, 48, 60, 72… almost 80 hours. Straight.”

The grin dropped away. “...How were they even _alive?_ Or better in a week? That’s insane.”

“They claimed that they didn’t need as much sleep, but…” she sighed, “I dunno. We’d had a really bad week before it. I think it was mostly them trying to avoid thinking about it, even unconscious.”

“Dreams aren’t always much of an escape, no,” he murmured, eyes on something far away. “That must have made keeping them still worse, then, even with two such interesting people for company.”

“It… was better once we managed to actually get them to sleep.” She picked her tea back up, taking another sip. “They wouldn’t stay asleep if I wasn’t holding their hands, though. It was a long week, sleeping in the chair by their bed just to let them recover.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Mr. Conan Doyle was writing a lot that week. He was extremely annoyed that we were giving him quite good material.”

“Too many ideas and not enough hands?” John wondered. “I know the feeling, a little.... I hope they thanked you properly for everything, at least.”

“They always do.” She smiled. “Can’t complain there.”

He eyed her doubtfully for a moment, but nodded. “If anyone can be trusted to know her own mind, it’s you, hm? And did you get to attend one of the parties, at least?”

“We got to go to one at the end of the week.” Donna mused, “I don’t know for sure if they stole that manuscript that Mr. Conan Doyle was working on, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they did -- they looked like the cat that got the canary when we left.”

John huffed. “Your friend sounds like quite the imp.”

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed.

“Oh, blast, and it’s time for my office hours,” he sighed. “I hope I haven’t kept _you_ too late?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” she tossed the last bit of her tart into her mouth, chewing and swallowing and following it up with the last of her refilled tea. “I’ll be a few moments later back to my post than I probably ought to be to bring this tray down to the kitchens, but no harm done.”

“Jenny will be coming up for Her Ladyship’s bowls and things anyway, unless you catch her to tell her not to,” he pointed out. “You could leave the rest, I _was_ the host today.”

“I… usually prefer not to make extra work for the house staff.” She admitted, smiling slightly. “I was raised to clean my own messes. But if she’s coming anyway...”

“She truly is, and you’d lose more time trying to find her or leaving a message. You’ll have to be satisfied with not making more work for yourself, I’m afraid.” He stood to offer her a hand up.

There was a brief few seconds where she eyed the offered hand, before reaching out and slipping her own hand into his. “Oh, I suppose if I _must_.”

He squeezed it gently and bore what weight she trusted to him easily… and then hesitated a moment. “...Thank you for accepting my invitation. I haven’t had such fun in ages. Might I hope to invite you again soon?”

“I’d… like that.” she said, softly. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “Perhaps Friday?”

 _He still hadn’t let go of her hand_.

“I’d like that very much.” His eyes were searching her face. For what, she couldn’t have said--

\--and then he bowed over her hand, smiling up into her eyes, and kissed, not his thumb, but her knuckles.

His lips were slightly chapped, and very warm.

“Until dinner, Miss Noble,” he said softly.

And then he let go, and Donna pulled her hand back close to her chest, for a moment forgetting how to breathe as she nodded toward him. She felt like she was running on autopilot, beating a hasty retreat.

This complicated things _significantly_.

 _Oh, Doctor,_ she thought, grabbing the watch around her neck for stability and to help her think straight, _we may have a problem._

_I think he’s serious._

\--

From the _Journal of Impossible Things_

Thursday, 25 September 1913

[A coloured-pencil starscape in a style highly reminiscent of Van Gogh’s _The Starry Night_. The emergence of a barred spiral galaxy predominates the scene.]

Another of the particularly fanciful dreams, all peace and starshine.

Perhaps that means things are going well.

_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor's handwriting:  
> 1\. Well. One can certainly hope.
> 
> Yes, that is an original cat character. Her Ladyship the Annoying Meowgnificence appeared suddenly in an RP, promptly adopted John, and took over the tups server. XD
> 
> The bits about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a week's bed rest, and the selection of topics are all references to Conan Doyle's first novel-writing attempt, _[The Narrative of John Smith](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Narrative_of_John_Smith)_. The first manuscript of which vanished under highly suspicious circumstances. 
> 
> We're not saying the Doctor stole it (the timing's dramatically wrong, for one thing), buuuuuut....
> 
> ....the Doctor TOTALLY stole it. XD


	13. so attired in wonder / being lacked and lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes the price of information is more than one should pay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for period-typical racism and period-typical homophobia: I’m afraid the Bully Trio _talk to each other_ without adults around.
> 
> It’s not great. 
> 
> References and transcripts at the end, as always.

From the _Journal of Impossible Things_

Thursday, 25 September 1913

[A coloured-pencil starscape in a style highly reminiscent of Van Gogh’s _The Starry Night_. The emergence of a barred spiral galaxy predominates the scene.]

Another of the particularly fanciful dreams, all peace and starshine.

Perhaps that means things are going well.

I do hope I haven’t caused Miss Noble distress. She didn’t seem to mind the kiss, but I can’t help recalling the first dream of the Faerie Queen, and how quiet she was--and then the real one was under so very much strain.

I don’t _think_ she was alarmed, at least. Miss Noble is not the kind to let offenses pass unremarked; the Stairs Incident would be as nothing to it. And she certainly didn’t seem to find me in any way threatening if she joined me for tea, alone in my office… which was on the verge as far as respectability goes, but Miss Noble seems to care little for _that,_ either.

No, if she was troubled or disquieted she’d let me know in no uncertain terms...

I think.

Which doesn’t mean _acceptance,_ of course, but it’s a start.

The dream was particularly beautiful and remarkably personal, for all the setting was straight out of the Doctor’s adventures; Miss Noble and I stood at the door of the Box and watched a galaxy spiral into existence. We spoke not a word, but it felt so natural to stand together and ~~enjoy~~ witness the wonder in each other’s company.

“The whole process is beautiful, but only if it’s being observed.”

It’s likely a little derivative of the dreams I already have, but it was nice to have something of my own. And to see a happy, confident ~~Donna~~ _Miss Noble_ (I mustn't allow myself to become sloppy _now._ One liberty unpunished doesn’t grant further permissions.) was beyond price, both in the dream and at tea.

She could’ve been as merciful to me as she was to the cat, but the banter was _far_ too much fun to give up. And she helped name her!

I must remember to restrain my paronomasia* a bit, I suppose.

* _the use of a word in different senses or the use of words similar in sound to achieve a specific effect, as humor or a dual meaning; a pun. -Editor_

Three in a sentence was clearly a bit much.

[Several pen-and-ink sketches of a half-grown calico cat in various attitudes, all of them ridiculous: hiding from a sparrow, washing her nethers, falling out of a tree. They surround a central picture in coloured-pencil of the same cat, sitting in an open window with her tail curled neatly around her too-large paws.]

Her Ladyship The Annoying Meowgnificence

(Her Ladyship, for short. A very silly name for a very silly cat.)

But there was such progress with HL at teatime! She made it to the windowsill from the tree in only two tries, and ate the entire bowl. Latimer’s recommendation of chicken livers was highly effective; I must find some way to thank him. If things continue to progress so well she’ll be an indoor cat before the snow flies.

Which is a comfort on more levels than the obvious in light of Miss Noble’s primary focus of conversation. I had no idea that the Neighbours were real, much less so active in more rural areas. Of course, we _are_ very nearly on the Welsh border. If anywhere follows the description of the ‘heart of the hills’, this is it.

I wonder if they trouble cats?

~~(Have they troubled young Latimer? Is it an advantage or a handicap to be too knowing?)~~

[This section of the page is struck through with heavy blotting.]

I really must get a new pen. This one leaks.

\--

Joan had gotten back up to their shared room first, after dinner, by simple virtue of George having pulled Donna aside as the dinner crowds dispersed to discuss a few last minute bits of work that she hadn’t quite gotten finished that day. Donna had been notably distant and distracted, only barely poking at her dinner with more and more aggravation as the time went on, and Joan knew that the explosion waiting to happen that was Donna Noble was due any minute. As soon as she got back, most likely. She’d learned to recognize the signs of Donna working herself up to a true and proper _fit_.

The question was, how had Donna managed to find that much to trouble her in the few hours since their interrupted teatime?

Well, she was sure she would be told exactly how. Donna was rather predictable like that. Joan changed into her night things, got out the hairbrushes, sat on the end of Donna’s bed, and waited.

She, quite luckily, did not have to wait very long. Not five minutes later, the door to their room swung open with force as Donna stalked into the room, eyes slightly wild.

“Joan,” Donna hissed urgently. “Joan, I think he’s _serious.”_

Ah. So that was what this was about.

(So he _had_ been listening.)

“Who is?” Joan asked innocently.

“What do you _mean_ ‘who is,’ only bloody _Mister Smith_!”

“Oh, him.”

“ _Yes_ , him!”

“Donna, dear, he very deliberately planned the most public apology possible without sending invitations. Everyone knew that. Complete strangers knew that.”

It was possible Joan was having too much fun at her friend’s expense.

“Necessary apologies don’t necessarily equate to--” Donna spluttered, shutting the door behind herself (a bit more harshly than likely intended; the heavy wood closing likely echoed a bit down the hall, but probably not loud enough to be heard downstairs). “Joan, I mean I think he’s _serious_ about _courting me_.”

“Yes, dear, I know,” Joan said gently. “As I said, everyone knew it. Mrs. Hodges knew it. By this time it’s likely the _boys_ know it. He isn’t nearly as subtle as he’d like to think.”

“He’s also _extremely off limits._ ” Donna said, folding her arms with great finality. “Do not pass Go, do not collect 200 pounds. He _can’t_.”

“I’m afraid I don’t catch the reference, but does _he_ know that?”

“Oh. Shite.” She frowned, her fluster momentarily forgotten as her brows furrowed in brief consternation. “That’s right, Monopoly hasn’t been invented yet. Damn, that was a _very_ good reference.”

“I’m sure you can show it to me next Sunday,” Joan soothed, patting the bed invitingly. “For now, come tell me why on Earth--or off it, for that matter-- _Mister John Smith_ would have any reason to think himself ineligible. Or why your very dear friend would, either.”

“Well, I--” Donna paused, and for a moment her expression dropped into something like helpless distress as she made her way over to the bed to collapse onto her stomach next to Joan, grabbing a pillow to hug close to her chest. “I suppose _he_ wouldn’t. Have a reason, I mean. But…” She sighed. “Okay, better way of putting that: _I_ can’t.”

Joan began to gently remove pins from Donna’s hair. “Can you explain it to me?”

“The Doctor and I aren’t _like_ that.” She said, curling tighter around the pillow she’d claimed. “We’re mates-- best mates, change your life kind of mates, but from the _beginning_ we agreed it was _just_ mates. The Doctor had had their heart broken, and I met who he’d been travelling with before me, after that heartbreak, and--” she sighed. “Martha was brilliant, really, can’t fault her, but she had the most unfortunately timed unrequited crush on them. When I started travelling with them, it was right _after that_. They went from heartbreak to the awkwardness of fending off a crush and they just-- they just needed a best mate.”

“I see,” Joan murmured, unraveling the coronet braid with careful fingers. “And how long have you been travelling with them since then?”

“About a year,” Donna closed her eyes to the gentle tug and release of the braids in her hair, relaxing despite herself. “And it’s been brilliant.”

“And how have they been in that time?”

Donna sighed, opening her eyes to peer up at Joan again. “Just as quick to deny accusations of us being together as they were at the start.” Another brief frown furrowed her brows, “We get mistaken for that an alarming amount of times, come to think.”

Joan filed this away to ask the TARDIS about, and then needed a moment to try to parse the ease of that thought.

She was really going to ask a sapient timeship that was very likely older than the universe for gossip on her friend’s love life.

She was _utterly certain_ that that timeship would _gleefully provide._

_O brave new world, that has such things in it!_

“Is it very upsetting, when that happens?” she wondered.

“Well…” Donna hemmed, before sighing. “No, not really. It's a bit like being told the sky is green, though. Just… doesn’t register as correct at all.”

“Impossible, then?”

“Improbable, at the very least.”

“But it wouldn’t be objectionable to you?”

Donna was quiet for a minute. “Everyone’s always saying that the person you date ought to be your best friend,” she deflected. “I mean… I get the concept. It’s a good concept. But… I don’t know.” Another sigh. Donna was honestly thinking about it, now; Joan could tell. “I just don’t want to be something they don’t need. They needed a best mate and I became the best mate they ever had. They changed my life, and I won’t… risk wrecking that.”

“Put that way, I understand the terror,” Joan said slowly. “And as I’ve never actually met them yet, I can’t make pronouncements.” Though the TARDIS certainly could, and the video evidence was in and of itself very convincing… Still, it had only been the one second-hand experience, even if distress tended to be as much cause of _veritas_ as _vino._ “You can’t help what Mister Smith feels, though. Do you think the Doctor will blame you for that? Or will it be a matter of embarrassment?”

“It comes back to, I can’t change what he does but I can control what I do.” She pointed out softly. “And… I will have self control, no matter what the other options are. _Therefore let Benedick, like covered fire, consume away in sighs, and waste inwardly._ ”

Joan took up the brush. “Is he Benedick,” she asked evenly, matching the strokes to the cadence of her voice, “Or are you?”

Donna didn’t deign to answer, and Joan realized after a long moment that the conversation had ended, stabbed in the back without mercy.

In silence Joan brushed out Donna’s hair, in silence braided it up again, and so to bed.

\--

Anand frowned down at his sketchbook. The portrait wasn’t bad, he supposed, but the _medium_ was slightly disappointing; the scene just wasn’t the same without the sun gleaming off of Miss Noble’s hair. It couldn’t be helped, though. Baines had stolen or ruined most of his art supplies, so it was graphite, ink, or nothing.

“Maybe if you erased some.” Tim offered, peering at the picture from over his shoulder. “Highlights.”

“Perhaps,” Anand allowed. “I might be able to suggest the dazzle that way.” He reached for his pencil case.

“It’s not gonna look the same without color, I don’t think,” Tim lamented, “Can’t really get that golden-red gleam in shades of black and white.”

“Stop reading my mind,” Anand said absent-mindedly.

“Was I?” Tim blinked, looking briefly confused and distant, “I didn’t think I was.”

“Yes, again. You’ve been doing that more often lately.” Had Baines stolen the rubber too? It would be just like him. “ _Awa_ says the gurus always get more sensitive as they get older, maybe it’s that.” He’d been discussing Tim with his grandmother since they’d met back in their first year, at first out of concern for his own safety, but very rapidly out of worry for Tim’s. His only friend was the type to be stolen even at the risk of iron.

Anand flexed his wrist experimentally. Yes, the armband was still there.

“Just mind you don’t have to go live up on a mountain to keep everyone’s thoughts out of your head,” he warned mostly-playfully. “You’d be a pain to go visit, though my father could offer several suitable ones.”

“I really didn’t think I was.” Tim mumbled, frowning faintly down at his hands as though his knuckles held some sort of secret of the universe. “It’s odd. It doesn’t feel the same as it used to, I used to always sort of _know_ when I-- when my brain went Elsewhere. Now it almost feels like I can’t get it _back_.”

“...maybe you _are_ getting stronger?” _Shiva Lord of Time, let it not be so._ “Or something changed that’s not you, I suppose.”

Tim hummed, for a brief moment or so seeming so lost in his own thoughts that he almost seemed like he really _wasn’t_ going to find his way back. He was much more lucid here in the dorms than he could become elsewhere in the school -- most of the time his notes from History class or English Lit could be halfway to illegible, but he’d had ‘episodes’ down in OTC, or even near the walls of the school. Anand eyed him quietly while he fiddled with the hem of his jacket sleeve, until his eyes focused again and he turned his attention back over Anand’s shoulder at the sketchbook page.

“...She had a pen,” he noted absently, and just like that the topic was lost again. “Right fancy looking one. Like a calligraphy pen.”

“One of the really new fountain pens that doesn’t leak, with the lever and all,” Anand agreed, and added it behind her ear. Friendship with Tim required a certain flexibility of thought; it was easier on both of you if you worked with context as much as possible and saved requests for definitions for the really important things. Quibbling or driving back to a topic tended to make his drifting worse as he racked his brain for answers. “I wonder--”

What Anand wondered was destined not to be said today, because in their distraction Baines had snatched the sketchbook out of his hands. “Hey!”

“What’re you doodling, Darkie Unpronounceable?” Baines taunted, peering at it. “Hoy, Hutchinson! Look at this, the darkie’s doing mash pictures of the new secretary!”

“Then chuck it away, no good keeping filth like that,” Hutchinson said lazily, not looking up from his card game.

“Unless it’s worth looking at and he’s not an invert after all?” Merryweather hooted.

“Not even,” Baines huffed, absently shoving Tim away as he tried to grab for it. “Just that time she was out on the wall. Useless.”

Tim’s ankles caught on a loose pair of shoes near the bed, and he tumbled down _hard_ , all of the air knocked out of him at once and the loose change in his jacket pocket scattering across the floor. Within moments, the other boys in the dorm had swarmed to scoop it up -- one never missed the opportunity for sweets money.

Baines snickered. “Fifteen percent fee, boys. You know the rules.” And with that, he flung the sketchbook out the open window and into the night.

Anand very nearly flung himself after it--but no, no, the sketchbook would survive the fall far better than he would, and--

(he flexed his wrist. Yes, still there.)

\--he’d have better luck out on the grounds with the _asura_ and _yaksha_ than he would here in a dorm full of white boys who outweighed him _and_ would report the ‘darkie’ as a savage-- _after_ they caned him bloody for trying it. Even being caught by the groundskeeper would be less painful.

Anand pulled Tim to his feet, mumbled, “be right back,” and was out the door as fast as his legs could carry him.

It was only a moment later, when he had barely skirted his way down the hall to the stairs, that he heard the footfalls behind him and turned to see Tim striding through the darkness, pale as a _rakshasa_ in the moonlight, jaw set in a scowl that didn’t fit at all on his delicate, angular features.

“Come on.” he said simply as he caught up, “If we hurry we might not get caught.”

Anand bit his tongue on the retort of _and now we both will if we do,_ and _you shouldn't be out at all_ with it _._ Tim wasn’t that much safer in the dorm alone than he was, and he was miles better at finding things, besides. Better to just nod and not risk being given away by an argument.

At least the halls were quiet, and the side-door hinges well-oiled. It could be worse.

(he flexed his wrist. Yes, still there.)

They got to the ground floor without trouble, only having to duck into a small alcove briefly to let one of the night watch pass by, with Tim hiding his fair hair and fairer complexion behind his dark school jacket. Once out on the grounds, Tim turned immediately toward the border wall, rather than to follow the side of the building.

“He flung it. I think it went over the wall. This way.” he said softly, and made quick work of locating handholds among the ivy covering the old stones.

Anand swallowed a sigh and followed without question. Being friends with Tim meant never having to _search_ for anything, but one made up for it in anxiety.

In this case, anxiety well warranted.

It was leaning idly against the other side of the wall when they dropped down. Woody and green, with delicately angular features, autumn leaves clinging to its hair, and eyes so brightly gold in the darkness as to seem to be glowing, save for the elongated, horizontal pupils. It almost appeared _frail_ , with limbs that seemed too long and a faint craning quality to its neck, and its ribs were visible underneath the skin.

And it was perusing his sketchbook. Delicately leafing through it with fingers that seemed too thin.

(he flexed his wrist. Yes, still there, thank the Destroyer of Evil.)

Those too-bright eyes flickered up and away from the page, taking in first Tim, then Anand himself, then ever-so-briefly glancing at the metal band clasped around his wrist. They drifted immediately back over to Tim, pale and delicate looking in the moonlight, and the lips -- or, what could be the closest thing to lips -- peeled back to show a thin row of serrated teeth, a vicious mockery of a human smile.

They had stepped outside of the school boundary. They weren’t _safe_.

(He had his iron. _It_ had his sketchbook.)

“Which of you does this belong to?” it asked, holding up the sketchbook. Its voice seemed just as frail as the rest of it.

Anand stepped forward. “My father had it made for me, and I am the only one who writes and draws in it,” he said carefully.

“Then you created this?”

It turned the book to show the page -- the very drawing that he’d been working on that evening, the one of Miss Noble.

“I drew it from an image in my memory, yes.”

“She is here to be an image in your memory?” the serrated-sharp smile grew a bit. “Does she know of us, yet, or has our acquaintance not yet happened?”

“...The subject lives and works here at the school,” Anand said slowly. “She showed me her iron, and I showed her mine, but if she has met one of your…” he wasn’t sure of the word, they didn’t call themselves _yaksha_ here, did they even consider themselves family or a clan or a country--

“Kin.” Tim supplied softly, his hand slipping toward his pocket. Anand would have to thank him later, if they got out of this, still themselves and still alive.

“--one of your kin, she has not told me the story.”

“No matter,” it turned its head back toward the page, “Now is not the time for our debts to be brought to balance. Now, I believe, is a time for a different sort of exchange.”

Tim went alarmingly still, at roughly Anand’s four o’clock-- and it turned its eyes back up to them, predator slow, but again, its gaze swept right past Anand himself, locking on Tim beyond him.

“Little Seer.” it said, voice as gentle and alluring as an autumn wind, hiding just as certain a chill. “I would negotiate with you.”

Anand tensed, glancing over at Tim and watching in alarm as the fairer boy just as slowly withdrew his hand from his jacket pocket. It was slack, and empty.

_He didn’t have his nail._

_The ringing of loose change on the floorboards--_ oh no, oh _no,_ God of Destruction defend them, Tim was only out here because of him, had lost his _iron_ because of _him--_

 _Give it the book,_ he wanted to say. Yes, it was filled with his creations, things he’d never be able to draw again. Yes, it would hurt to lose. Better to lose the art, better to lose the _skill,_ than to lose _Tim_ any sooner than he had to--

\--but he couldn’t.

Interrupting a negotiation would be the height of rudeness, and doom them both together.

He could just make out the bob of Tim’s Adam’s apple ( _what a strange thing to call it!_ his brain yammered, and he hushed it sternly) when he swallowed, but he stepped forward to stand beside Anand, and then another half-step forward past him. He wisely kept out of immediate reaching distance, but he was very clearly acknowledging the negotiation.

“I present myself for negotiation, gracious _sidhe,_ ” Tim spoke, and Anand did his best to commit the word to memory (‘Shee,’ with a strange emphasis on the starting consonant sound -- it sounded roughly as English as his own mother tongue did). “Would that I may request my friend’s sketchbook back, and safe exit of this encounter for the both of us.”

“And of what price are you willing to pay?” The _sidhe_ asked back immediately, a lilting almost-melody to its wispy voice. Its eyes never faltered on Tim’s face.

“For the sketchbook he calls his own, a single thing of which I do the same,” Tim offered smoothly, and were it not for the faint trembling of his hands, one would think he were calm. “And for your service in letting us leave unhindered, a service rendered in return.”

“A single thing of yours which only you can give, and a service that only you can render, then.” The _sidhe_ lilted, holding the sketchbook up in an offer. “Step forward, Little Seer, that I may take what you have agreed to pay, and I will render unto you your request.”

What would he give, what did he even have _with_ him? They’d run out so quickly, his pockets must be empty, what could he give?

Tim swallowed faintly again, his fingers trembling with nervous energy as he folded his hands behind his back to hide the sign of weakness. “Only one,” he repeated, his voice somehow still steady.

“Only one.” it allowed in return, inhuman eyes unblinking, “But one of my choosing.”

One? Of the _sidhe’s_ choosing, that Tim and only Tim would be able to give at any time? But what--

Oh.

Oh, _no_.

Anand set his features into perfect Court-blankness. This was his fault; he couldn’t make it worse showing his dismay.

Tim took that step forward, and stood still. The _sidhe_ lowered the sketchbook for him to take, and placed it in his hands. Then, those earthly green, too-long fingers lifted away again, up from his chest, up towards his _head_ , briefly brushing against Tim’s fair, delicate cheekbones before pressing feather light on either side of his head, just at his temples.

Its thumbs pressed at the center of Tim’s eyebrows, and the effect was immediate. Tim’s mouth dropped slack in a staggering gasp, and his eyes rolled upwards, and it became apparent all at once that the only thing keeping him _upright_ were those deceptively frail hands.

“Tell me of the time of ending, when the one-to-whom-we-are-indebted is reborn and the debt of creation is repaid in full.” the _sidhe_ spoke, the wispiness and frailty dropping from its voice entirely, resonating with power. “Tell me of Donna Noble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor’s handwriting:
> 
> 1\. Well. One can certainly hope.  
> Though, ‘well’ is relative to the one experiencing it.
> 
> 2\. Oh now you’re just cribbing.
> 
> 3\. Nearly maimed you for the puns when _**you**_ named her, more like.
> 
> 4\. Know your audience; Know that Donna is not that audience.
> 
> 5\. More importantly, how talented _**is**_ the boy? Precognition is one thing. Nipping the thought right out of your head is quite another. I spent an entire ten minutes on those shields, and we made you in twenty!
> 
> 6\. They do love toys that bite back. A hangman’s blessing is a penitent’s curse.
> 
> Notes For Historical Pedants Like Wren: Yes, the Landlord’s Game was invented in 1903 and versions were spreading about ever since, but it’s very unlikely to have spread to circles Joan would be in, and why on earth would Donna Noble know that? Monopoly didn’t see commercial release in the UK until the 1930s.
> 
> Sorry about the Bully Trio. The ‘DU’ epithet is straight from the novel.
> 
> References:
> 
> [awa](https://www.rd.com/list/grandma-grandpa-different-languages/#:~:text=In%20Telugu%2C%20another%20popular%20Indian,live%20in%20India%2C%20or%20elsewhere.) is Telugu for 'Grandmother.' Anand speaks a LOT of languages, and we just went with what sounded charming and what we thought Anand would be willing to say in a dorm full of English-speaking teenagers tbh.
> 
> [Shiva](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shiva) \-- “God of Destruction, The Destroyer of Evil;
> 
> Lord of Meditation, Yoga, Time and Dance; Great among The Devas (gods);
> 
> Parabrahman, Supreme Being (Shaivism).” Wren _had_ to. 
> 
> (Anand’s family, being the rulers of Benares State as mentioned some chapters back, is particularly devoted to Shiva; if I'm reading right the head of the family is considered an incarnation thereof, so Anand is sort of praying to his Dad!) 
> 
> [Asura](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asura) \- “powerful superhuman demigods with good or bad qualities.” Later Vedic texts straight up call them the enemy of the gods, as opposed to the benevolent Devas.
> 
> [Rakshasa](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rakshasa) \-- the rakshasa are types of asura spirits that are more often akin to ghosts or ogres, so Anand is basically comparing Tim to a ghost here.  
> [Yaksha](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yaksha) seemed the closest to the role the Good Neighbors take in Occidental culture, what with the nature spirits that _can_ be benevolent but can be as often malicious or capricious, especially what with the _bhuta_ counterpart which “haunts the wilderness and waylays and devours travellers.”
> 
> Once again, Wren’s overly-read white person apologies for taking liberties with living, cherished beliefs belonging to other cultures. If I fucked up, please tell us, we’ll do our best to fix it. Also I’ve been trying to get Anand to DO things in this story since I came up with him; I hope you like him!


	14. she will die if he woo her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... 
> 
> what was all that about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Traumatized children and Lukas Bloody Moffat.
> 
> (Creeper, stop creeping!)

It felt as though the day just wouldn’t end.

If Wednesday, September 24th was alarmingly full of occurrence and consequence for most parties involved, then the transition over into Thursday the 25th was stressful for similar, related reasons. Donna absently stared towards the gently ticking clock on her bedside table in the darkness, willing it to reach midnight, willing the day to be over already, and feeling as though there was a hand slowly closing over the small, lingering lump of anxiety in her chest.

The room was quiet, but she knew from experience now that that wasn’t any promise that Joan was asleep. And even if she _was_ asleep, that was no promise that she was sleeping _deeply_.

_The clock will hit midnight,_ she thought, assigning purpose to the words, _and this day will be over, and then I can sleep and put it behind me and eventually figure out how to move forward from here._

_I don’t know how I’ll deal with John, yet, but I’ll figure **something** out._

It wasn’t quite hope, but resolve would do in a pinch.

The hand ticked to 11:59.

A muffled _thud_ sounded through the door.

_Why… am I not surprised?_ She wondered, staring with remorse at the downright _tease_ of the clock.

“Matron?” came a faint voice, young, plaintive, _exhausted._ “Miz Noble? Please--”

Donna threw back the covers and raced for the door. Joan, a bare half-step ahead, flung it wide with hardly a thought for her haphazard dressing gown, and nearly collapsed under the weight of the boys it was holding up.

“S’ry, Matron,” Anand slurred into Joan’s chest. “Couldn’... hold ‘im anymore.” He was bent double under the weight of an utterly unconscious Tim Latimer, and _how_ he’d managed to get the poor boy pig-a-back up all of these stairs without waking the entire house or passing out himself--

“Shh, it’s all right,” Joan soothed. “You did well, we’ll look after both of you now, you’re safe.”

Anand shook his head. “Not safe, my fault--” his eyes caught on Donna’s, and the terror and _pleading_ in his gaze struck her to the quick. “N-neighbours. Made him. Miz Noble, please, help?”

Joan was managing to hold them upright but Donna could tell she wouldn’t be able to maneuver them without Anand collapsing underneath Tim’s weight. “Keep him up,” she said softly to Joan, swinging in to the side and easing Tim’s limp body from Anand’s shoulders. The fairer boy’s knuckles were rigor white in a death grip around the beautiful leather covers of Anand’s sketchbook, even unconscious. It was quickly apparent that she wouldn’t be able to loosen his grip to get him off of Anand.

Anand ducked down to let Tim’s arms unhook from around his neck--though _sagged_ was likely the better word for the relief of more burdens than the purely physical as his white-knuckled grip on Tim’s legs finally eased. Donna hefted Tim onto her own shoulders instead, while Anand half crumpled against Joan. “‘Nk’you,” he mumbled into the nurse’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Miss Noble’s got him,” Joan assured. “Try to stay awake for me, we’ve got to get you downstairs too.”

“Can you still walk?” Donna asked. She tried not to notice Joan eying the ease she was hefting Tim with.

“Can manage,” he insisted. “Jus’ need a minute.”

“What about an arm?” Joan asked, arranging his over her shoulder. “You’ve already done exemplary work, no need to stand on pride.”

“...don’t have any,” Anand decided, and did his best to cooperate.

Getting them all back _down_ again without either pitching down the stairs or making a racket was its own set of adventures, awkward and harrowing enough to join such delights as ‘wrangling a Spaceman with a sprained ankle to the TARDIS through a recently ended street-to-street civil war’ and ‘getting a drunk Nerys home without getting arrested.’

(The latter was worse. The latter was _always_ worse.)

Donna did her best to focus on keeping Tim balanced on her shoulders, and to not get vertigo on the way down the stairs. The rest of it— Anand’s process down, keeping him from tumbling in exhaustion— she left to Joan.

At least the corridor from the end of the stairs to the infirmary seemed much shorter in the middle of the night without a crowd of boys thronging it, and Joan had quite a lot of practise getting the lock open one-handed.

“Closest cot please, Donna,” she said breathlessly. “Come, Mr. Narayan-Singh, we’re almost there.”

Anand smiled tiredly. “Yeah.” They limped the last few steps, and if it was more of a controlled fall than anything, at least he was _on_ the cot and didn’t go over the other side.

Donna shuffled around to the next cot over and eased down, her legs burning but her movements controlled and steady, until she could let Tim’s limp form rest on the cot behind her. Getting his arms off from around her neck took barely a second, though she took the moment to fuss and worry at his rigid hands. Attempting to gently pry the sketchbook free only ended in a tighter grip and Tim letting out a faint, terrified moan in his unconsciousness.

“Oh, Tim,” she murmured softly, stopping the attempt and reaching forward to brush a faint tousle of his blond hair off of his forehead.

“S’mine, n’the… neighbours got it,” Anand murmured. “Got tossed out the window. Tim… traded for it.” _It’s not worth it,_ he didn’t say, but it burned in his eyes. “M’be I can…?” He reached out, but the cots were too widely spaced to reach.

Donna set her jaw, before moving over to him, “If you’re up for trying. Up you get, then,” she hummed tunelessly, easing him up under his armpits so that he could cross the distance to Tim. “I’ll keep you up, just… do what you think you should do.”

Joan frowned, but didn’t protest as Anand staggered upright, though Donna had to bear most of his weight. They limped the few steps, and Anand bent down over the cot, hands over Tim’s. “Tim,” he said gently. “It’s me. We’re--we’re safe. You can let go.”

Tim let out another faint whimpering sound, but his knuckles slackened from white and his grip loosened enough that Anand could ease the sketchbook free. All without any signs of waking up.

Donna walked him back over to the other cot, easing him down with a bit more control than Joan had managed, though that was no fault of Joan’s. She’d gotten enough practice carrying dead weight in her life that she could do this while plastered drunk.

“Good work,” Joan said, brisk but gentle. “Donna, help him get comfortable enough to rest. Are either of you bleeding or injured that you know of, Mr. Narayan-Singh?”

“Nuh,” Anand said miserably, clutching the sketchbook to his chest. “Safe passage. N’getting out there was fine.”

“Small mercies. Now _stay still,_ if you please.” Joan began checking Tim over.

Donna brought her hands to rest over Anand’s, rubbing gentle circles into his knuckles. “We’ll put this right on the bedside table right beside you, okay?” She asked, giving a rueful smile toward him. “Tim got it back, that means that the deal was completed, and they can’t take it back again. It’s over. You’re both safe.”

He just looked more worried. “Woulda given, but it just wanted Tim. My fault. Lost his iron, my fault too. An’ then--”

“Shhh.” she pressed a bit harder in the small circles. “It was an unfortunate encounter, but you both got through it. What did it want from him?”

“Thing an’ a service. N’then it put its hands. On. On his head, and then it took--” He mouthed worthlessly, looking confused, and then kept going, but his accent had changed, still just as tired, but with different shapes around the vowels that told her that the TARDIS was translating now. “Vision? Questing?” He grimaced, accent changing again. “Made him see things--not here? Truths?”

Donna noted Joan’s sharp glance upward in surprise at the first change, and pulled her lips into a brief, grim smile toward her -- what a way to break the translation filter to her, she’d have to explain that later, though it said quite a lot that the TARDIS recognized her to translate even from this distance and on emergency power. She looked back down at Anand again, squeezing his hands. “Tim is a Soothsayer?” she asked, gently. She could feel her own mouth pulled into a foreign feeling set of shapes and vowels, and knew that the translation filter had just bumped her own words briefly into Anand’s mother tongue for him, finding a word that made sense.

His eyes lit up. “Yes!” he cried, and the excitement and relief of using his first language seemed to cut through the exhaustion a little. “Such strong and potent visions, and--” he faltered again. “--it made him see you.”

“Me?” Donna blinked, her hands finally stilling.

Anand bit his lip. “It saw… I drew you. It was to be a present, but it saw, and it asked…” He closed his eyes, clearly trying to remember. “If you had met it--or its kin? And then when we could not tell it, it used Tim to Soothsay ‘the-one-to-whom-we-are-indebted.’” He gave her a terrified look. “It knew your _name.”_

She was still for a moment more, before letting out a slow, measured sigh. “Suppose it makes sense, right about now, considering what I agreed to. Trust the Gentry to be trying to figure out how to balance their books,” she murmured, “and to use any means necessary to do so, even if others get hurt in the process.”

She shook her head, squeezing at his hands again, and imbued certainty into her voice despite not feeling much of it at all -- dealing with the Gentry did that, and especially now, when she’d given John her iron bracelet and more or less left herself open for potential ruin. She would have to be careful to open the watch if she was taken. They might take her, but they wouldn’t take the Doctor.

“Now, hear me out on this, Anand.” She said, intently, “You’d do best to try and forget whatever you heard, alright? Don’t bring it up with anyone, don’t even talk about it with Tim if he doesn’t remember. You and he don’t need to get yourselves tangled up in my messes.”

“I don’t think I can forget,” Anand said slowly, with a tiny bit of a slur creeping back into his words. “The things he said while he was under… but I don’t want to speak them. It’s… so _much._ And Tim hurt so.” He tried to stifle a yawn. “But take care. Please. I am sorry… should’ve guarded it better--” Another yawn interrupted him, but he continued doggedly. “I won’t tell. Ever.”

“It got what it wanted from the two of you,” she finally eased the sketchbook out of his hands and placed it on the small stand between the two cots. “You got through the encounter. Your books are balanced; put it out of your mind, now, and just be vigilant for the future.”

“Yes,” he sighed, lying back on the cot. “And… and give Tim… iron like mine…” He turned his head on the pillow, saw Tim still safe, and let his eyes shut at last on a relieved little sigh.

“Good work,” Joan said softly. “Give him a moment and then take care of his tie and shoes, won’t you?”

“Right.” Donna nodded, but didn’t move yet, just… continued to look down at Anand. She let one hand run gently through the dark boy’s darker hair, brushing a bit of it from his face without touching his skin directly. They’d gone through such a scare tonight… and Tim had been entirely dead weight when she carried him, and supposedly the Neighbor had taken a _vision_ from him…

A vision about her. About their debt to her, which she had done her best not to think about.

Being in debt to the Gentry was dangerous. Having them in debt to _you_ could be even worse.

She hadn’t ever intended to stay in one place long enough for them to catch up. The Doctor ran as a matter of profession, and as long as she could keep up, that was all that mattered.

She was distantly aware of Joan moving about, examining and tending Tim and making him comfortable, but it was still a surprise when she felt the gentle hand on her shoulder, and looked up to find Joan in a fresh dress and apron, holding out her dressing gown. “Put that on, at least,” she said gently, and nodded to Anand. “From the look of the panic, he’ll need you if he wakes.”

Spurred into movement, Donna nodded again, tugging the dressing gown on over her sleep clothes and methodically undoing Anand’s tie, and slipping his shoes off of his feet. “Suppose I’ll be staying down here then. Have to have Jenny or one of the other house staff run up and get me a change of clothes when they’re up. No sense in troubling them before that.”

“And you can catch forty winks on one of the spare cots until then,” Joan said firmly.

“Nah,” Donna offered a weak, tired grin. “We can take it in shifts. I don’t mind making sure you get some rest too. My work can keep; yours you ought to be rested for.”

Joan huffed. “I’d argue, but it’s also my job to be sensible. Once I’ve checked over this one, too, then.”

“He seems mostly just overexerted from a bad fright.” Donna said softly, “but, this is your wheelhouse, not mine. I’ll go sit with Tim.”

“So do I, mercifully. And Latimer…” she sighed. “It looks like exhaustion, but he’s lost weight he didn’t really have to lose.”

“Stress does that, over a period of time.” Donna mused, “He might have experienced longer than Anand did.”

“...You do see it sometimes,” Joan admitted. “Or it’s in the stories, at least. Encounters lasting longer than they should, a hundred years in a night, all that. Poor lad.”

“The Neighbors aren’t tethered to time like we are.” Donna moved around the cots to take a seat next to Tim’s, leaning over and wrapping her hands around his, which were still chilled with the coldness of the outside night air and with poor circulation from his grip on the book. She began automatically rubbing circulation back into them from the tips of his fingers upward, taking comfort in the simple fact of having something to _do_. “And it sounds like Tim got dragged along by one.”

“And this one on the fringes.” She turned to looking over Anand, and they worked for a while in silence.

Donna had just begun to hope that Joan would finish her work and then keep her word about going to sleep when her friend turned to her. “How much of that can you explain?”

She closed her eyes, grimacing, and looked away. “However much you want, just… Not here. It’s too much. Sunday, I promise.”

“Will you be safe until then?”

“...As safe as I usually manage to be.” Donna decided, turning her eyes back down to Tim. “I don’t think the Gentry will come after me, at least not so soon, if that’s what you’re asking.” _And if they do I can handle it._

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Joan considered her a while longer. “...Very well, then. I’ll trust you with this, since you didn’t argue about the dressing gown. Wake me if one of them stirs, will you?”

“‘Course.” Donna nodded, and settled in for a quiet, restless wait.

\--

By the time she was reasonably sure that Joan was _actually asleep,_ the clock read 1:33 AM, Thursday September 25th.

She brought a hand to the fob watch around her neck, pressed it close to her heart, and finally admitted to herself for once just how much she wished they were there with her. It would be nice to be held close again.

\--

Entirely predictably, instead of waking Joan at roughly the halfway mark around 4 AM, Donna stayed quiet and decided to let her sleep through. She knew she’d get an ear lashing from the slighter woman, but she had meant it when she told Joan that her own work could keep— a few cups of coffee throughout the day and she’d manage. Besides, she almost felt as though turning away from the two boys would result in them disappearing between blinks. Her anxiety wouldn’t have let her sleep a wink anyway, might as well make use of it.

So she passed the time soothing away nightmares from the two boys, carding her fingers through their hair whenever they began to fidget in their sleep, smoothing lines from their brows and softly, tunelessly humming in the darkness of the quiet infirmary.

When the window to the infirmary began to lighten to pale gray and then soft pinks and golds, there finally came noises from the rest of the house as the house staff began shuffling about. Donna glanced toward the clock on the mantel— just a bit before seven. Time to wake Joan, then.

Her limbs felt heavy and clumsy when she finally stood, and she took the moment to try and stretch some sensation back into her legs. The rest of the boys and men in the household would probably be waking up over the course of the next hour, so the staff would be working on getting breakfasts sorted.

She walked over to the small pull chain set into the wall near the door, knowing that pulling it would ring a bell in the staff’s common area and call someone to the infirmary to assist, then walked over to gently press her hand against Joan’s shoulder.

“Joan, time to wake up. House is waking.”

The nurse blinked, groaned, and sat up, rubbing her eyes. “What time--” her lips pursed. “Remind me not to believe anything you say if it has to do with your own health.”

“Too late.” Donna gave a faint, unrepentant smile. “I’ve called for one of the staff, I figure I’ll let them know while they’re bringing breakfast up to the gents to grab me a change of clothes. The boys are still asleep.”

“You won’t be so smug on Sunday,” Joan muttered direly, fixing her clothes and going to check on Tim. “How did they sleep?”

“Mish-mash of bad dreams, but I helped them through it. They slept through.”

“Thank heavens for small mercies. Better to let them sleep as long as they can, I think. It’s always so uncertain when it comes to treating the aftermath--all stories and no certitude.” She checked Tim’s pulse, made a note, and smiled wryly. “Never thought I’d be drawing more on my midwifery training than my nurse’s training for one of the boys, but there’s few targets more tempting than a newborn or a woman on the verge of birthing.”

“All I can say for certain is that Tim having the Sight puts him on that list up amongst those targets.” Donna sighed, shaking her head. “He might not wake today. And I don’t think he should be pressed to.”

The rapping at the door made her look up, hurrying over to tug it open.

“You rang, Matr— oh!” Jenny stopped herself, standing on the other side of the doorway, as soon as she registered it was Donna in front of her and not Joan. “Miss Noble. Apologies, Miss.”

“Yeah, me.” Donna waved the mishap away with a wry smile, too exhausted to devote any more thought to it. “If you’re bringing up breakfasts to the gents, could I trouble you to run up that extra flight and nab me a change of clothes? Matron had a change down here but I didn’t.”

“It’ll be no trouble at all, Miss, I can get it on the way back,” Jenny said cheerfully. “How many breakfasts will you be wanting for here in the infirmary? Any invalid food?”

“Two proper breakfasts for now, Jenny,” Joan put in. “But have them keep some porridge warm in case one of the boys wakes up. Enough for two.”

“Of course, Matron. We’ll see to it.” Jenny bobbed a curtsey. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do, Miss, Matron?”

“A mug of coffee with one of the breakfasts, please.” Donna said, “Stronger the better.”

Jenny grinned wryly. “Certainly, miss.”

“You’d better write a note for George,” Joan said as Jenny hurried off. “Both to let you off for the day and to tell him where the boys are before they’re missed at morning inspection.”

“As soon as I get a change of clothes,” Donna promised, “I’ll go to my office and see if I can’t catch him. It’s Challpner for inspection today, isn’t it? Or is it Robertson?” She frowned, “Challpner will be understanding, at least enough to hear out what happened, if it’s him.”

“It _is_ Challpner, fortunately for everyone concerned but especially me,” the matron said with unusual asperity. “We’ve enough problems this morning without Robertson’s chauvinism and his devotion to his personal brand of ‘logic.’ As if he could _reason_ away Neighbor trauma by pontificating at it!”

“And the boys don’t need to be taken to task for having a mishap.” Donna said firmly. “Honestly, it could have been worse off if they _hadn’t_ gone out. Anand said that the Neighbor had his _sketchbook_. They’d be able to use that against him, iron or no iron.”

“Too much of himself in it,” Joan sighed in agreement. “As well give them a lock of his hair, at that point. It might have been safer just for being less _interesting._ ”

“I will be _very_ interested in finding out how his sketchbook ended up _outside_ of the school bounds near midnight. _Especially_ given that there was a known encounter so recently.” Donna huffed softly. “He wouldn’t do it himself, he doesn’t let it off of his person that I know of.”

“No more than he takes off that armband for anything but washing. No, it’ll be more of what you saw on the stairs.”

“And I’ll not be surprised if it’s the same culprits.”

There was a knock at the door, derailing the thought. Donna hummed in confusion.

“That’s quick,” she mused. “Think that’s breakfast already?” She pushed to her feet to go get the door.

And ended up face to chest with not Jenny or one of the other maids, but Lukas Moffat.

“Oh.” She frowned, not even bothering to hide her distaste. “Definitely _not_ breakfast.”

“It breaks my heart to disappoint you,” Moffat said with his usual too-oily ‘charm.’ “Particularly so … early in the day.” His eyes swept down, then up, and lingered unpleasantly on the slight gape of Donna’s borrowed robe. “But I’m the... _escort_ of bad tidings, in the form of a fight in the corridors.”

Donna let her face twist further, but glanced away from him to note the slightly bedraggled boy with a handkerchief held to his nose, bloody and bruised.

“I’m sure that can be attended to.” She said shortly, waving the boy in, “Matron’s just inside, Hadleigh-Scott, isn’t it? Go on then, get that set.”

His eyes were still lingering, and quite honestly, she was already sick of it. Once Hadleigh-Scott had ducked in around her, she turned hard eyes on Moffat again.

“Take a photograph, it’ll last longer.” She snapped. “Do you have any other reason to be here other than walking him here?”

“So cruel, Miss Noble,” he chided. “You’re quite correct, of course, and I must once again be deprived of your scintillating company. Until luncheon, then.”

“I think not.” She scowled. “Until dinner, when I’m _forced_ to be in the same room as you.”

He had the temerity to grin and bow. “‘Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains,’” he said blithely, and took himself off.

The disgust choked in her throat, and she felt as though she’d just been slapped. In the face. By _Shakespeare._ Which was an even greater affront to her sensibilities than if he had been rude enough to outright _leer_ at her.

She knew the play well enough to know the context of that line. To know that Benedick, in saying it, was under the impression that Beatrice was already in love with him.

If the bastard had the audacity to believe himself Benedick, then she would rather be Don John actively attempting to sabotage things and ending in jail by the end. She sure as hell wouldn’t be Beatrice to _him._

_What will it take to get him to understand that I’m not looking, and if I were, I sure as shite would **not** be looking for **him?**_

“Slimy git.” She hissed. “I hope you trip up the stairs. Break your own head, nothing in it to lose.”

“God forbid, he’d only have to come _back,_ and even a broken head might not shut him up,” Joan said faintly, over Hadleigh-Scott whimpering at her setting his nose straight again.

“Miss Noble?” someone asked, surprised, and Donna paused and poked her head back out the door to see John coming up from the other end of the corridor, fully dressed but ungowned and bare-headed, with his hair in disarray. “Challpner said Latimer and Narayan-Singh weren’t at inspection, are they here?”

“Oh. Yes. They’re in here, they had a run in with a… well, never mind. Unharmed, just a bad scare— are you alright? You look winded.” She stepped into the doorway, frowning in concern, noting his unsteady breathing.

He paused, baffled, and raked a hand through his hair, trying to neaten it and just making matters worse. “I’d just--been in the middle of something, when I heard. Still a bit distracted, and I thought … something must have happened. I do beg your pardon.” He glanced down, turned red, and promptly glued his gaze to her face. “They _will_ be all right, though?”

Well, at least _someone_ understood dignity. She firmly told the pink in her cheeks to bugger off, the Doctor had seen her in pajamas before and this was no worse than that, convention of the time be damned. The only thing that made it gross was Moffat being a creep over it.

“Anan— that is, Narayan-Singh ought to be alright once he wakes up.” She said, catching herself on the slip up. “Latimer is a toss up on _when_ he’ll wake up, but also ought to be alright at that point.”

He sighed in relief, all the tension flowing out of him at once. “Thank God. I thought--never mind what I thought. They’re all right, that’s what matters. What happened? Or … should we not speak of it?”

“Best to let it lie.” She said firmly. “For their sake.”

“Then I shall.” He made her a little bow. “And now I’ll leave you be, unless there’s any way I can assist you?”

Another difference. She couldn’t help the warm feeling in her chest at how quickly he was aiming to leave, instead of lingering to stare like Moffat had. While it was still clear he would prefer to stay in her company, he wasn’t overstaying his welcome.

“I don’t think so. See you at dinner?”

“I’ll look forward to it. I hope you have a better day than it began,” he wished earnestly, and took himself off.

Before he could fully walk away, she felt her heart clench and before she could stop herself her mouth had opened, “John—”

He stumbled to a halt and spun to face her, face lighting up. “Yes?”

She blinked, realizing all at once that she’d just called him by his first name which was rather familiar, here, and held _connotations_. She cleared her throat. “Ah— Mr. Smith, that is. I just… wanted to say thank you.”

The light dimmed into a bemused but still genuine smile. “You’re most welcome, of course, but whatever for?”

And she felt the warmth in her chest grow. _For even now keeping your eyes on mine? For being a gentleman to the end?_

“For... having to honestly ask that.” She finally decided, smiling. If he thought nothing of his own actions being worthy of thanks, then that was a greater indication of his character still.

He blushed again. “‘Your answer, miss, is enigmatical: / But, for my will, my will is your good will.’ If I made you smile, then that’s enough.”

“‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me.’” she quoted back, smile softening a bit, “Until dinner, Signior.”

He somehow turned even redder. “As--’As you hear of me, so think of me,’” he managed, and fled.

She pulled back, waved Hadleigh-Scott out of the door now that his nose was no longer bleeding, and shut it again

“--yeah, yeah,” she said, before Joan could even speak up. “I know. Don’t even start.”

Joan just smiled. “‘I am not such a fool as to think what I list, nor I list not to think what I can.’”

Donna rolled her eyes, then leaned down and tugged off a slipper to throw at her. “I _said_ don’t even start!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All quotes are from _Much Ado About Nothing._ Feel free to ask!


	15. and wise, but for loving me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone learns something.
> 
> ETA: We're introducing hovertext! If Wren's done this right, hovering your mouse over the zalgotext bits SHOULD give you a lil xkcd style popup with the translation. Hope that helps a bit. The end notes will also always have the lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning Notes: Warning for panic attacks. And a flashback or two. 
> 
> ~~They’re being edited out it’s _ **fiiiiiiiiine**_~~

( _It is 15:37:43_ , _Thursday 25th September, 1913._ )

( _Pay attention now. You are safe._ )

*

“Only midwives have spare iron,” Challpner said flatly.

John blinked at him, his train of thought thoroughly derailed. “I beg your pardon?”

(His pulse was racing. Had he been concentrating so hard as that?)

“ _Nobody_ has spare iron, Smith. You get one trusted piece and you keep it, and you don’t let it go. The only people with iron to spare are midwives--someone has to supplement the new mothers and the tiny babies, they’re the most likely to be stolen, and the ironworkers supplement the midwives. If Miss Noble gave you iron it was her own, and she doesn’t have any more.”

John’s hand was aching. He looked down and found the little bracelet wound in and out of his fingers, clutched so tightly it left indents in the skin. When had he done that? “But… she knew there was activity in the wood,” he said slowly. “That was how we came to the topic at all, we don’t …” What was even the word? This was all so new.

“I suppose we don’t need to guard so closely, in Nottingham.”

W̵̆͜e̷̖͘ ̷̠̅ṅ̸͓e̶̪̒ṽ̸͍e̴̦̅r̷̩͘ ̴͎̃h̶̻̚a̵̜͗ḍ̵̕ ̶̡̋ṭ̵́ȍ̵̺,̸̣́ ?B̸̢̝̮̐͒̃̒e̵͌̊ͅf̴̼̯͕̪̣͠o̸͓͗͒r̶̰͖̱͍̅̈̅ȩ̵̞̥͈͕̽̚.̴͚͉̯͍̑̏͑̍̚͝

̸̗̅Ą̸̐n̸̤̈d̷̻̈́ ̷̬n̷̤͒o̵̭͊w̶͇̽ ̶͙͠t̶͓͂ḣ̸̖e̶͕͆r̵̯̋ę̶͋ ̵͉͝i̵͚͒s̶̖̓ ̸͔̇n̴̳̅o̴̥̕ ̶̢̓w̵͖̄e̶͕͝,̵̀ͅ ̴̳͛b̷͉̎u̴̪t̴̹̓ ̶̫̋ĕ̶͈v̵̬̇ë̷̱n̴̙͑ ̴̰͊a̷͍͒f̵̛͓t̸̢̔e̶̪͋r̸̜̕ ̴̼̉Ì̶͚ ̷͖͠ṇ̵̍ȅ̴̲v̸̠̕e̶̪̋r̸̩̀ ̴̹̐h̵̘͋â̴̦d̶̦̀ ̶̞̐t̸͓́õ̷͈ ̸̄ͅc̴̫̊ä̷̜́r̴̗͌e̷̬͆.̸̭̉

_̷͎͙̘̗̰̯͑̒_

_ ̷̰̣͐̈́̍͐͘Ŭ̵͕̤͇̖̥̦n̸̡̢͔̰̮̫͊ẗ̷̹̮̜̤̮̲́̌̓į̵̳͂̚l̷͍̼̀̊̇ ̷̡̢̭̰̘̾̇̈̕Ĭ̸͕̫̳̘ ̶̜͙͌͑̔̏d̵͎̻̮̦̹̠̍̓̿̉ǐ̷̧͓̹͖̘̊̅̃̕d̸̦̼̘̱̰̲͋̾̚͘͠.̴͛͂̓̎̔̓͜ _

_̶̡̧̝̤̲̫̈́͋̐̿_

Challpner took another sip of his coffee to hide his frown, humming indistinctly. “Mark my words, Smith,” he finally said, after ruminating for a moment. “She lied when she said she had spare iron, likely to get you to take it in the first place.”

_O̵f̴ ̷c̴o̷u̸r̸s̷e̸ ̷s̸h̵e̶ ̷d̸i̶d̷.̸_

“But… why? Why would she do that?”

_B̷̢̕e̴͈͊c̸̰͐a̸͈̿ủ̵͉s̸̢̚e̵̠͘ ̷̖̽ì̸̠t̸̰̊’̶͙͒s̶̗̏ ̴͚̐D̵̰̂o̷̝̕n̷̙͘n̷̳̆å̷̬.̵̛̬_

“I would think it obvious.” Challpner mused. “She prioritized _your_ safety over her own.”

“But--” John said again, brain stalling. It was so hard to think.

(His lungs ached.)

He wasn’t even certain what he was running aground on.

 _‘I offended her so badly’_?

She’d forgiven him, as far as he could tell.

 _‘She hardly knows me’_?

That wouldn’t matter, not to Donna-- _to **Miss Noble** , idiot boy, you still haven’t any right._

No, it wasn’t Miss Noble’s actions that puzzled him. Everything he knew, or thought he knew, about her said that of _course_ she would trade her safety to protect someone, stranger or no, rules of society be damned.

_ S̷h̸e̵ ̶s̸t̴o̸o̷d̴ ̴b̵e̶t̶w̸e̶e̴n̵ ̸m̷e̸ ̶a̶n̵d̷ ̷a̴ ̵s̵m̵a̶l̶l̸ ̷a̵r̷m̴y̷ ̴a̷f̷t̷e̶r̸ ̸o̴n̴l̸y̵ ̴a̴ ̷f̵e̴w̶ ̵h̵o̶u̴r̸s̴’̵ ̸a̵c̶q̴u̶a̷i̴n̴t̶a̷n̷c̵e̶.̷ _

Then what _was_ the problem? Well, of course he was dismayed, only a villain wouldn’t be. She was guarding and tending those poor boys even now, and had probably been guarding them all night if the unfortunate state of her dress was anything to go by.

_(Don’t)_

_(ɈɒʜɈ Ɉυodɒ ʞniʜT || Tʜink ɑbout tʜɑt)_

_(̴̛̮R̷͇͂i̸̝̕g̷͙̍h̷̦̕t̷̝̆ ̷̲̿n̴̮͌o̷̮͐w̴̝͊.̷̬͝)̷̦͐_

Challpner took another sip, contemplating him with an unreadable sort of intensity. “I’m surprised you don’t see it as a boon with regards to her favoring you.”

“ _I’m not worth that!_ ” burst out of him before he could stop it, but it was true.

He wasn’t _worthy._ Of course he adored her, of course he wanted to _win_ her favor, but--

\--but not at the cost of _her._

“...She’s like someone who walked out of a story,” he said, a little more calmly. “She needs all the protections she can get. She .. her burdens are too heavy already. I want to _ease_ them, not make them heavier.”

Challpner was quiet for a long moment, still watching him intently, expression inscrutable. “Take a drink, Smith.”

Take a--?

Oh, yes, they _were_ having coffee, weren’t they? Challpner’d been sipping from his all along, and the man had made it himself from his own private stock, it would be a shame for John to neglect it entirely.

He sipped. It really was very good. Oddly soothing, and _much_ better than tea.

_Ḃ̸͍̼͘͝i̷̻̦̝͈͍̰͌͐͗̎̔͛͆͜ṭ̷͚̳̙͆ę̵̢̠̙̠̿̇̃̓̈̎́͜ͅ ̵̨̛̬͓͙̱͊̍̿́̋̽̓̈́̚y̶̮̦͙̬̐̀̋͗̀͜o̴͍̦͉͑̔̇̇͌̔̆͠u̵̬͊͝ȑ̷̡͈͔̺̼̑͋͗̃̈̋̓̀̊ ̵͍͐̑̕t̴̘͓̪̫̼͖͈̟̘̰̑̋̑̇͗̈́̊o̶͍͇̙̣̘͗̓͒̈̇̐͒͑͝n̴̛̞̼̠͆̾͐͘͠ğ̷̼̜͛͛̅̋̄̇̈̍͋ủ̶̡̡̹̮̱̱̮͔̮̅́̃̕e̴̳̳̻͎̱͙̲̮̙͈͛͊̒̿͜ y̵̯͐o̸̖̾u̶̡͗ ̵̤̚p̴̤̋e̴͖͝a̴̬ř̵̼-̷̫̒ȩ̷͐ȁ̸̱t̸͉̕i̸͎̚ń̸̠g̵̱̈́ ̷̰͑d̵̦̐i̶͍̅s̸̯̊ä̶͓́s̴̩̅t̵̠͊ḙ̶͐r̷̹̊ ̷́͜m̷͉̄ȯ̷̰ṉ̶̒k̸̰̃e̴͕͂ỳ̵̥.̸̨̏_

John took a longer drink, savoring the depth of the roast.

_H̵͈̙̋̿o̶̿͜ŵ̵̡̕ ̵̪̂̐d̴̳̔ͅǐ̸̧d̵͍̐ ̸͙̱̀I̶̱̣̕ ̶̥̠̿m̴͉͂ä̴̺͍́k̶͔̓ȩ̶͓͋͝ ̶̪̬͝s̵̳̀ȕ̷̙̄c̶̳̅͋͜ẖ̷̍͌ ̷̛̳̍a̵̬̣̒̈ ̴̙̹̄̇ṡ̵̱̊ṃ̴̿͛u̶͖̥̽g̷̪͇͐̏ ̵̦̝̂b̷̲͇͆ạ̵͊ș̴͒̋t̵͔͕͋â̶̮̑ȑ̶̭d̵̨̈?̶̦͓̉̃ ̴̢͍̈́͠_

_̶̜̪̊.̵̟͑̓.̶̨.̴̨̖͐̍D̸̞͎̾o̶̠̾n̷̻̉’̴̞͉̃t̵̜̰̄ ̴̨̝͂a̸͓͈͆̉n̷̜̬̒͠s̶̤̙̉ẘ̵̗̙ȅ̶̜̲̅r̴̻̆͜ ̶̧͖̽̀t̴̨͚͠h̵̗̑̐a̵͖̋t̷̤̟͒͘.̴̨̘̔͋ ̶̱͒̔_

_̴̺͔̐(̴͎͎̍Ẏ̶̺̻͠ȯ̷̰u̷̡̾̀’̷̧̅̐d̷̯͌̕ ̷̠͐b̸̭̱̽͝ẽ̸͍t̷̻̘̋ṯ̸̅ĕ̷̜̳͗ŕ̴̞͌ ̷̠̭̔͆n̸̹͍̂o̷̦̰̐t̸͉͕̍̎ ̷̨̀b̴̥̓e̴̦̦̕ ̷̬̏͜a̸̢̺̕͘b̷̗̑l̴̠̅e̶̛̟̿͜ ̵̲͊͘t̵͖̒o̵̺̤͛ ̷̢̐a̷͚͑n̸̫̄s̷͈̘̚ẅ̶̩͚́e̵͙̬͝r̴̲̈̇ ̸͌ͅt̴̤̕h̵̖̉a̶̝̕t̷̡̿́.̶̠̠̈́̋)̸̡̙͆_

“Now,” Challpner said, setting his mug down and leaning back in his chair. “You cannot stop Miss Noble from choosing what burdens she takes up of her own will. The only way you’d be able to ease any of her burdens at all would be to help her carry those she’s already chosen. And _that_ takes a more particular sort of intent, to speak plainly.”

“I wouldn’t _stop_ her, that would be asking her to stop being herself,” John protested. “I want to help her in _every_ way.”

“Then it sounds to me that you intend to marry her.”

Oh.

_**Oh.** _

Oh that was it, that was _precisely_ it, John had never heard anything so right in his _entire life,_ and what was the end-goal of courting anyway? Hadn’t he already been trying to make his intentions clear to Miss Noble?

And his _particular_ choices of quotes and love-poetry--Benedick no sooner knew he was in love than he sought to marry, and the Song of Songs was _marriage-vows,_ wasn’t it?

Really, hadn’t that been his intention _all along?_

How silly of him not to realize himself. But that was Challpner, laying things out plainly in a way that cut through all of John’s nonsense.

“I do,” John said slowly, not caring how silly the smile spreading over his face must be. “I really do.”

Challpner took another sip of his coffee, shaking his head with a faint, amused smile. “Well… in any case I think you might stand a fair shot if you continue as you are. Have you begun saving yet?”

“Well… yes,” he confessed. He hadn’t quite thought what he was going to use it _for,_ but his needs were met and his wants were very few--except for books and Donna Noble, and there were plenty of books in his collection and the library. Really, his greatest expenditure was in art supplies. “Not that it’s all that much yet, but I expect it’ll need a long courtship.”

(So strange, ‘wanting’ a _person_! Has he ever, before?)

(It’s new, but not bad. Don’t think about it too hard.)

_I̶t̸ ̴h̸a̸p̵p̵e̴n̷s̴.̶ ̴ ̴͈͋̒͂̈̇S̴̺̘̦̗͓͂̍̇͝ȍ̸̙͇̩̊͒̕m̵͎̹̲̐e̴͎̦͈̐͐͐t̷̻͇̗̿i̶̍͒̔̆͑͜m̷̘͍̼̲̋e̴̺̼͝s̶̫̠͖̠̔̌̚͜͠͝.̶̡͖͖͈̒̅̾_

“It’s worth it, for her. Whatever she’s comfortable with.”

(He could _also_ use the time to get comfortable with it.)

(Still, so strange, to _want_ a person. He supposed that if it could happen to him because of anyone, it made sense that it would be Do-- _Miss Noble_.)

Challpner had levelled a dubious stare at him in response, but rather than saying anything, he simply took another drink of his coffee, in rather a manner of ‘I don’t believe you, but if you say so.’

“What?” John asked, nettled.

“A long courtship.” Challpner repeated.

“It’s only been eleven days since I apologized,” John pointed out. “Yes, she’s been very kind, and we had a lovely conversation at tea yesterday, but I’m the idiot who fell in love at the drop of a hat, I don’t expect _her_ to be nearly so foolish. I barely understand that _I’m_ in love. Whatever ‘drives liking to the name of love’ for her will take as long as it takes.”

“ _A long courtship._ ” Another, more openly incredulous repetition. “Smith, need I repeat, she _gave you her iron._ ”

“...Yes, apparently,” said John, feeling like an idiot, but that was hardly new. “I’m new at this.” Neighbours, love, all of it, it seemed sometimes--

(growing as a person takes time)

_ā̷̡n̸͇͝d̵͖͊ ̵̰̓ṱ̸̀h̴̝̚ĕ̵͈y̶̙͒ ̶̤͋W̷̙̼̑̃Ȇ̷̯̳̪̠̤̈́͋̇R̷̥̃͆E̷̫͉̊͂̃N̶͓̻̍̓’̸͎͖̤̖͋T̵̰̩̾ ả̸͉ļ̶͐w̷̝͌å̶̳y̵̺̔s̷̫̐ ̶͈̑t̸̬h̸͓͆ȇ̵͉ṙ̵͇e̶̯̊ ̸̘̇y̵̘ẻ̶̤s̷̮̀t̵͓͋e̵̻͒r̴̻͛d̸̡͒ã̴̻y̵̜̽.̶̧̿_

_̷̓ͅN̴̼̕ọ̴̚t̴̮̉ ̴͈̔f̶͖̔ơ̵͉r̶͈̓ ̵̯̈m̷̱̑è̴̤.̴̡̚_

_̴͙͎̉̌ͅŅ̷̠͑̾̈́o̶͇̎ṭ̶̢̀ ̷̠̱̹̒̔̓f̶͖̙͒͝o̵͕͝r̷͔̗̮͆̾ ̵̢͇͔̉y̸̹̅̅o̴͈͑u̴͓̞̗͒̔́.̵̬̀_

“I don’t think I’ve ever _been_ in love before. It’s very distracting.” He absolutely wasn’t hiding his face in his coffee mug--except that he was. Perhaps denial took too much energy.

He was in love, and apparently Miss Donna Noble cared enough about him to give up her personal safety for _his sake,_ and he really just could not deal with this at all.

Except it was supposed to be wonderful.

And it was.

It was!

But he was also very tired, and it was only teatime.

“I’m a disaster, Challpner,” he said at last. “But you knew that.”

Challpner took a final sip of his coffee and considered him for a moment longer, before sighing. “You’re not all here yourself, Smith. If you weren’t twisting that iron between your fingers like a lifeline I’d even say you’re rather fey yourself. But… strangely enough, I don’t agree that you’re a disaster.” He shook his head as though to reinforce the comment, “You’re disorganized and uncertain of your footing as of yet, but you show remarkable focus when you set your course on something. I’m fairly sure you’ll be comfortable with this revelation within the month.”

Twisting the iron--?

John looked down. No, that hand was full of mug--

(you have two)

Oh, the _other_ hand. So he was. Again.

No, still.

It ached a little, he should probably stop.

_Y̶͙̐o̸̤͆ṵ̶̈ ̵͙̈́s̷̳̓h̸̥̉ö̴͙u̵̧̇l̷͓̐d̶̪̂ ̵̮͊ä̴͇l̵̃ͅs̵̜̄o̴̻̓ ̴̤̀s̶̤͠t̶̪̽ȏ̷̱p̶̟͋ ̷̗̐h̴͕̐a̴̬̽v̶͇̄î̶͙n̴̠̊g̷̨͠ ̴̰̉a̶̕͜ ̸͎̐p̶͍a̵̰͋ṅ̸͇ȋ̶̙c̵͔̈ ̷̘̓a̷̲͋t̶̻͝t̷̞͒a̴̞͌ć̵͇k̷̠̋-̵̱̏-̵̥̅ ̷̳̌_

_̸͔̂-̸͚͠-̴͙͌w̴̦̋e̶̙͆ļ̶̈́l̷̹͝,̷͈̍ ̵̰̚I̸̟ ̶̱͋s̶̙̏u̶̹̎p̸̝͊ṕ̷̜ơ̸͇s̵̘̄e̴͔ ̷̘͘t̷̪̀ḩ̵̏a̵̦͗t̴́͜’̴̛͎s̵̱͑ ̸̩̽ä̸̫́ ̶̱̈́b̶̧̏i̸͚̿ṫ̴͍ ̷̻̂m̶̝͒ệ̵ȧ̶͚n̴̿ͅ.̴͎͋_

“Drink.” Challpner ordered again.

John drank. There was something about swallowing that felt…

...real.

_̴G̷r̷o̸u̴n̴d̸i̸n̷g̷.̶_

“Humor me a moment,” Challpner said, “Think of yourself as though she were sitting here rather than myself.”

John considered this. Miss Noble, curled up in one of Challpner’s enormous overstuffed armchairs? She’d be entirely dwarfed, pleased as a cat who caught a canary by being so, and likely rather darling. Sitting in a way that would utterly shock every deportment teacher ever born, no doubt, and smiling over her mug at him...

He took a deep breath. Funny how much easier it was. And now his shoulders didn’t ache. His hands ached less, too.

“Mm.” Challpner hummed in confirmation of some hypothesis, though he didn’t elaborate further. “I think, overall, you aren’t remiss to set your affections toward her.”

“You say that as if I had any choice in where they went,” John returned, but it was an amusing enough thought. He wouldn’t want them to go anywhere else, anyway.

“She’s good for you, Smith.” Challpner mused, finishing off his mug. “Endeavor to be good for her in return, and you cannot fail.”

“That’s all I want,” John said, and found it was the truth.

The clock on the mantel tolled.

“Keep me apprised of any news, then, if you get it. You said she was in the infirmary helping Matron, earlier, and she wasn’t at lunch. Matron only said that she was attended to. She’ll likely seek you specifically during dinner.”

“I do hope so,” John said fervently, finishing off his own mug at a gulp and standing. “And I will, but I’d best not miss office hours. Thank you for the coffee. And the advice.”

Challpner waved him away. “[Begone with you, then,]” he intoned in Latin, “[lest the tricky marksman of the heart set his unwanted sights on me next, to nock an arrow and try to knock it through my chest.]”

This last put John in stitches as he headed for the door. “[The Gods forfend, for your sake more than for anyone you might happen to fall in love with!]” Oh, to just imagine, Richard Challpner in love! A terrible trouble for him, but quite lucky for his target, really.

“[Tend your own arrow wound, and mind me avoiding any of _my_ own.]” another dismissive wave. “Go see to your office hours, Smith.”

“‘I go, I go, see how I go,’” quoted John merrily, closing the door behind him with a quiet _thunk_ \--

( _an arrow embedding itself into faded blue wood with a solid sound_ )

( _bowstrings stretching and straining ready to be loosed through not-iron bars_ )

( _arrows elf-shot ace dodging madly cybermen falling one by one_ )

*

Really, it would be nice if love didn’t make his _heart_ race so.

\--

“Hutchinson,” someone hissed.

Where _was_ the little nit? Or the other one, for that matter?

“Hutchinson.”

They’d been AWOL at inspection, the report had gone about that they were in the Infirmary, but it was bloody _dinnertime_ and he had seen neither hide nor hair of them all day!

Yes, there’d been Neighbours about again, but it’d been little things--hair colour, a bit of doggerel poetry, little frights meant to teach idiot kids manners. They should’ve been _back_ by now.

“Hoi, _Hutchinson._ ”

(Latimer and Singh were his age. Last class. Nearly ready to become officers themselves. Would they still count as children?)

A mocking voice, right in his ear. “Oi, _Alton--_ ”

“ _Don’t. Call. Me. That,_ ” Hutchinson growled, elbowing Baines away.

“You’re the one mooning about,” Baines huffed. “Look at the faculty.”

“What about--”

“Cor, but your brain’s entirely gone. Look who’s _missing,_ you numpty.”

It wasn’t actually hard to tell when he looked; hard to miss the only thing worth looking at in a whole table of dons. Or rather, the lack thereof. Both Matron and the fiery Secretary were missing.

Bad enough to keep them _both_ away from the table? At _dinner?_ But nobody _else_ had been missing from inspection, or the rest of the day; it’d all just been buzz about--

Movement and murmuring drew his attention from the high table. Off at the far end of their House table, a slight dark figure was slipping into place, shoulders tucked in close and head ducked down.

\--well. About Latimer and Singh.

...and yet. Singh was conspicuously alone.

There was a cold lump forming at the base of his stomach, watching the darker boy being jeered at and shoved by those he was sitting next to, before softly saying something-- and the boys beside him going _frightfully_ still.

Where on _Earth_ was Latimer? They’d both gone out the night before, they’d _both_ never come back, they’d _both_ been reportedly in the infirmary… So why weren’t they _both_ here for dinner?

Hissing and elbowing rippled through the crowd of boys as someone spotted the Headmaster approaching the table. No more time to think about it.

“Before we begin,” the Headmaster announced, “I must remind you all of an ongoing hazard to the safety of this school and all within it. There have been two encounters with _sidhe_ in the last two nights; the most recent sent two students to the infirmary, one of whom remains in care.”

He swept the crowd with a gimlet eye.

It didn’t linger on Hutchinson, of course.

Of course it didn’t.

“You all know the rules of this establishment and the prescriptions for safe coexistence with our Neighbors; I _trust_ we do not need to hold basic safety classes to remind you of things which you should have learned in the nursery,” Rocastle said sternly. “It is the duty of all Men to champion Men and not allow them to stumble into hazard with those beyond our ken--or to deliberately cause them to do so.”

He was definitely looking at Baines, wasn’t he? It was just because Baines was _next_ to him that it looked like the Headmaster was staring him down.

Surely. Baines was less subtle about things than he was. Surely.

“I also remind you that to tell or to press to tell of such encounters may recall undue attention. I _trust_ that future officers of His Majesty’s Army understand _discretion_.”

The Headmaster’s eye had moved on. The bullies around Singh were leaving a little space around him now. Oh yes, they took his meaning.

(No, Hutchinson himself wasn’t relieved at all. There was nothing to be relieved _about._ )

“If you have questions, you may address them to your House Masters. Now, then--”

Hutchinson barely heard the grace; only following the crowd had him sitting down in time.

Latimer was still in the infirmary.

Latimer was badly off enough to need Matron _and_ Miss Noble, badly enough to leave Singh picking at his dinner as if afraid it would only come back up.

(Baines poked him again and passed him a platter; Hutchinson mechanically took it and served himself something. He had no idea what it was.)

Latimer was--

\--but no, that wasn’t Hutchinson’s fault. He couldn’t have guessed Baines would _actually_ chuck the blasted thing out of the _window,_ could he?

Where else would he chuck it, though? The fire’d been doused already...

\--but how was he to know it’d go out of _bounds_ , or that they’d be idiot enough to go _after_ it?

( _Baines is the all-school champion discus thrower,_ a niggling voice in the back of his head whispered; _and has been for three years running._ _Singh’s written and drawn in that sketchbook every day_ _for, what, a year and a half? The only way it could be more part of him would be to_ **bleed** _on it. Not chasing after it when it had been stolen and chucked away would be as good as saying ‘come take my heart! Have fun!’_ )

\--but _Latimer_ didn’t have to go too--

( _They’ve been thicker than thieves since we all started here. They’d die for each other. Latimer would’ve gone after that blasted book if we’d broken every bone in his body._ )

\--but why would Singh be up and about and not Latimer? They tested Latimer so often, he definitely had _iron_ , he held up his nail every morning to head off the testing before even being fully _awake_ most days. They _both had iron_. How could Latimer have wound up so much worse off--?

 _Another_ elbow, to his _other_ side.

“ _ **What**_ , Merryweather?” Hutchinson sighed, sick of himself and his thoughts and his ‘friends’ and this _blasted_ day.

“You’ll like this,” Merryweather snickered, and held up--a nail.

“It’s a nail. What about it?”

“It’s _Latimer’s_ nail,” the oik grinned. “Nicked it when--”

“--when Baines emptied his pockets for him,” Hutchinson heard his voice say, though he didn’t recall saying it.

“Got it in one. Guess they finally decided to take him off our hands for good-- _oi!_ ”

Hutchinson snatched it out of his hand and gave him a good elbow in the gut to stop him taking it back. See how _he_ liked it. “ _Give_ me that, you bloody _twit,_ before you get us all in jug.”

He’d give it back to Singh after dinner.

...now if only he could _stomach_ it.

\--

 _(You_ **have** _had a time, haven’t you my dears? But it’s time to wake up. Today is another day…)_

She wasn’t sure what exactly had stirred her, only knew that she felt consciousness cresting back over her like a rising tide, until she was awake again. It was… the gentlest she’d woken up in the last two years, if she was being honest. The Doctor wasn’t exactly patient enough for slow wakeups, when they got their mind set on something it had to happen _just then_ , and working here she’d had duties and obligations that precluded slow, lazy mornings. But this… felt luxuriant. Like waking up because she _had_ reached that nebulous ‘fully rested’ state.

 _That’s better,_ she thought she heard nearby, a voice, gentle and genteel and soft around the vowels -- and familiar in a foreign way. _You’ve had a lovely sleep._

Her eyes fluttered, opening more easily when not immediately assaulted by light -- the infirmary was still shadowed and gray in the early morning. The soft clicking of the door to the infirmary swinging shut again helped her feel more aware of her surroundings, though when she looked around the ward was still empty but for her, Tim, and possibly Joan in the matron quarters.

 _Did I… sleep through the night?_ She wondered blearily, easing herself upright and rubbing the crust from her eyes. She vaguely recalled passing out a little after tea time, when Joan had finally bullied her into one of the cots for ‘the night shift’, even though it was only about 4 PM, if that. Her stomach grumbled softly -- yes, she’d definitely missed dinner. The light in the infirmary was also definitely saying ‘early morning’ and not ‘late at night’.

Tim groaned.

Immediately, Donna’s eyes snapped over toward him and she felt more awake.

“Tim?” she asked softly into the gray, swinging her legs off of her borrowed cot.

He grimaced, hands scrubbing a little awkwardly over his face.

“ _Tim_!” she was off of the cot and over to him immediately, leaning down over him. The watch swung free from her nightgown, but her focus was entirely centered on gently pressing his tousled blond hair out of his face, to peer close at him. “You’re awake. Thank the stars. How are you feeling?”

“Donna?” he asked blearily. “What--” His eyes shot open. “Miss Noble! I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I’m ...” He frowned thoughtfully. “...rested,” he decided at last. “Where’s Anand?”

 _I would hope you’re rested_ , Donna thought, but kept it to herself. _You only slept over a day._

“Mr. Narayan-Singh woke up last night just before dinnertime,” Joan’s voice came from the matron quarters, “I sent him for food and cleared him to return to his dormitory afterwards. Though I’m sure he’ll likely be in to visit you before morning inspection.”

“Brilliant,” Tim said with a smile, which fell away into an absent sort of frown. “...last night? What day is it?”

“The morning of Friday the twenty-sixth.” Joan answered, voice gentle. “Mr. Narayan-Singh brought you up to us near midnight between Wednesday and Thursday.”

“...I lost a day?”

“Be grateful it didn’t take more from you than it did.” Donna’s hands gently carded through his hair. “A day’s recovery is phenomenal. It took me nearly three weeks to fully recover from an encounter before.”

“But _you_ were faced with--!” Tim clapped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide.

Donna sighed when she saw Joan eyeing her critically. “I was hoping to keep that to the story,” she admitted softly. “Yes. I was faced with rather more than a common fringe _sidhe_. How much did it make you See, Tim?”

Tim _shuddered._

“...and that answers that.” Donna mused gently, carefully prying his hands away from his mouth and rubbing gentle circles into his fingers again, trying to soothe him. “Over now. Put it from your mind, alright? It got what it wanted from you, you owe it nothing else, especially not your worry now. Let me handle myself.”

“But you bear so _much,_ ” Tim whispered. “You help everyone, but you never let anyone help _you…_ ”

“That’s not true.” Donna said, softly, a simple refutation, and brought a hand up to finally, gently clutch at the watch. “And you know it.”

Before they could get any further, however, a knock sounded at the door. “Matron? Miss Noble?”

Tim’s face lit up.

“Right on time,” Joan laughed, and went to answer the door.

“I brought the assignments for when Tim--” began a rather worn-looking Anand.

“Anand!” Tim called from the bed, and all the weariness dropped away as Anand rushed to his side, seizing his hands.

“Tim! You’re awake! You’re _all right!_ ”

“And on that note,” Joan mused, “I’ll want to check you over, of course, but if you’ve woken, then there’s little saying you need to _stay_ in the infirmary. You may be able to return to classes. But we should probably replace your iron, Mr. Latimer.”

“And Miss Noble’s,” Tim said absently. Joan stilled, then cast a sharp look over to Donna, who gave a weak grin.

“Oh, ah… yes. Forgot to mention. Gave mine to Mr. Smith, as he didn’t have any.”

“ _Donna_.” Joan sighed. “I swear.” She turned to start digging through a drawer near the medical supplies.

“It had to be Donna--Miss Noble’s. He’d forget it otherwise,” Tim mused, eyes fixed on-- _the watch?_

“Oh, I--” Anand dug into his pocket urgently, “I actually--” He pulled out a bent nail with a sound of triumph. “Hutchinson gave me this after dinner so I could get it back to you. Said he’d taken it off Merryweather. It’ll help if the-- _sidhe_? Comes back.”

“Oh, it’s gone.” Tim said, without hesitation. “It was only here for this errand, really.”

“But what if any others come?” Anand pressed, looking down at the nail in his hand and frowning. “What if you lose your nail again? Let me give you one of my armbands.”

“I can’t. I can’t wear it,” Tim said gently. “I’ll just be careful to check my pockets from now on.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I think … Hutchinson won’t let them have their heads so much anymore, anyway.”

“If we’re all satisfied--” Joan cut in, in the midst of pressing a small, heavy iron disc into Donna’s hands and giving her a deliberate _Look_. “I ought to get to work checking Mr. Latimer over. Mr. Narayan-Singh, if you would please wait outside? I have little doubt I’ll be able to release him for breakfast.”

“Yes, Matron,” Anand said hastily, but he cut Tim a _Look_ of his own as he hurried out.

Tim just smiled.

\--

John took a deep breath. All he had to do was knock. He wasn’t even going to linger. It was fine.

“It’ll be fine, sir,” Jenny said encouragingly, and he really was _fearfully_ obvious, wasn’t he?

_T̶̘r̷̜̄ė̴̩m̶͚͊ë̴̬n̵͉͠d̸̼̾o̵̠̓ų̸̛ṣ̷l̵̩̎y̸̗͋.̵̈ͅ_

Oh, well, better to be obvious than misread.

It had been a frank relief to see Miss Noble at breakfast that morning, tucking her hair up back into its pins, so much of one that he couldn’t even feel self conscious about having gone down to breakfast specifically out of the sheer _hope_ to see her.

And conversely, it had been a bit less of a relief when he saw her at lunch, a mite more frazzled, and sparing him an apologetic look that told him before she had to that she wouldn’t be able to meet him for tea. Apparently missing a day of work had put her far enough behind that she would need to catch up.

Well, then. If the mountain couldn’t come to the Prophet, the Prophet would go to the mountain. Or something.

Jenny coughed discreetly.

John knocked.

“It’s open,” Miss Noble said distractedly, and John pushed the door open so that Jenny could pass through with the tray.

“Brought you tea, miss.” Jenny announced. “Mister Smith thought you’d appreciate it, even if you’d be busy during.”

John’s ears burned. “Jenny was good enough to carry the tray for me so that it’d make it here safely.” His hand _had_ healed (Nurse Redfern had been a bit surprised, for some reason) but … best not to risk it.

“Th--” Donna-- _Miss Noble_ blinked, looking up at them both in mild surprise as Jenny set the tray down on an open space on her desk. John mentally berated himself again -- her eyes focusing on him should _not_ do such drastic, grievous harm to his manners. It was only three syllables, why was this so hard? “Thank you. That’s much appreciated.” She caught hold of Jenny’s hand by the wrist in order to make sure she smiled at the maid with the offered gratitude, before Jenny could scurry off again. “Thank you for your help in that, Jenny.”

“It’s my job and my pleasure, miss,” Jenny assured her. “Do ring if you need anything, Matron will be that put out if you waste away.”

“My notion was born out of mingled concern _and_ fear, yes,” John said wryly.

“You do excellent work,” Miss Noble said, still focusing on Jenny, “I just rather prefer not giving you too much more to do than you already have, is all.”

Jenny beamed modestly. “I know, miss, and we all appreciate that below stairs, but it really isn’t a problem. Things work much better with you making sure all’s tidy with the shops, and we know it.”

“And thus we see that you’re an angel of mercy to the entire school,” John agreed with a grin. “We just like to do our part.”

Jenny smiled again and gave one more quick little curtsey, before excusing herself and hurrying back to her work. Miss Noble took a moment to look at the array on offer on the tea tray, still looking… pleasantly baffled? “You really didn’t have to do this.” she said, reaching to pour herself a cup of tea (two sugars and a dash of cream, John noted, before she added exactly that). “But… thank you, again. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep our arrangement.”

John shrugged, hoping he didn’t look quite as eager-puppy as he _felt._ “There will be other chances, if you’re willing to indulge me. I just … want you well.”

The bracelet was very heavy in his breast pocket.

“Speaking of which--could you have, er …” How to put this delicately? “Possibly _exaggerated_ about having a spare piece of iron?”

She paused, her cheeks going pink. “...at the time, yes,” she finally admitted. “But I _do_ have a replacement piece, now. Joan-- that is, Matron-- she was very _cross_ with me about it.” She tucked her hand into her breast pocket and fished out a buffed, smooth coin-like disc to show him.

John could _feel_ himself slumping in relief. “Then I’m very grateful to her. As I still am to you, in all honesty. Challpner made it very clear what you were doing for me, and I particularly feel it now, after all this fuss you’ve taken the brunt of.”

_Don’t do it don’t do it don’t do it--_

He took her outstretched hand in both of his, folding her fingers securely about the coin.

And then just stayed there, holding her hand, damn him.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” he whispered. “Truly.”

She didn’t respond verbally, but… the look on her face said more than enough, as far as he was concerned. She swallowed slightly, and squeezed at his hands, offering a tremulous smile.

“...Perhaps we could take tea together tomorrow, instead?” she managed, softly, glancing back at the tea things. “I-- really ought to get back to work if I want to finish what piled up by tonight.”

Another chance _and_ a prospect to survive OTC with? He was the luckiest man in the _world._ “I’d like that very much.”

Could he? _Dare_ he?

“‘I will kiss your hand, and so leave you,’” he ventured--he’d gone this far--and bent to press his lips to her knuckles.

This was it, this was _truly it_ , she was going to slap him and he’d be honor bound to let her--

...but she didn’t. Her fingers flexed, and the flush on her cheeks deepened, but… he was allowed to let go of her hand un-slapped.

“Until dinner,” he managed to say, and somehow got all the way out of the office without tripping or walking unseemly fast.

He even managed to get back up to his quarters before letting out the whoop of giddy glee, muffled into a pillow.

_Ö̷͓́k̸͍̽ả̵̘y̶̨̾,̵̫̎ ̴̘͒f̴̠̋ị̸̈́n̸̗͑e̸̡̍.̴͆͜ ̶͔̿Ĩ̴͖’̸̣̓l̶̤͊ļ̸͐ ̴͉̑g̸̫͆į̸̐v̸͓̈́e̴̟͌ ̷̮͒y̶̦̓o̸̳̽u̷͚͋ ̵͖̕ț̸͆h̶͕̔a̴̫̽ẗ̴̻́ ̶̻́o̶͉̅n̵͉͛e̶̾ͅ.̴͍̋_

_̶̜̏Ỵ̵̛ō̴̰ŭ̸̲ ̸̳̇j̴̙͊ȃ̷̞m̵̫̀m̴͂ͅy̴̭̒ ̶̘͘b̷̟̂å̶͓s̶̙̍t̸̜̓a̷̠͝r̵̘̆d̴̯̅.̸͕͂_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctor-dialogue:  
> 1\. We never had to. Before.  
> And now there is no we, but even after I never had to care.  
> Until I did.
> 
> 2\. Of course she did. 
> 
> 3\. Because it's Donna.
> 
> 4\. She stood between me and a small army after only a few hours’ acquaintance.
> 
> 5\. (left-aligned) Right now.
> 
> 6\. Bite your tongue, you pear-eating disaster monkey.
> 
> 7\. How did I make such a smug bastard?  
> Don't answer that.  
> (You'd better not be able to answer that.)
> 
> 8\. It happens. Sometimes.
> 
> 9\. And they WEREN'T always there yesterday.  
> Not for me.  
> Not for you.
> 
> 10\. You should also stop having a panic attack--  
> \--well, I suppose that's a bit mean.
> 
> 11\. Grounding.
> 
> 12\. Tremendously.
> 
> 13\. Okay, fine. I'll give you that one.  
> You jammy bastard.


	16. as it please you / as it please me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They share a braincell. Donna has it most of the time.
> 
> (Joan is in firm possession of the Braincell now.)

Sunday the 28th of September dawned remarkably sunny, for being so late in the year and so close to the Welsh border. It was something of a relief to the nerves; mist and fog would only have further excited and terrified a student body that was already on edge. Rocastle’s announcement at dinner on Friday that the _sidhe_ was thought to have left the area only helped so much.

That the person most keyed up of all was in fact one of the _teachers_ couldn’t possibly have helped morale; John was twitchy and nervous, but _cheerful_ in a way that made him almost as manic as the Doctor at their worst moments--

\--only more painful. The Doctor, at least, knew what was bothering them, what they were so determined to hide.

Donna wasn’t sure John was even allowed to know he _was_ bothered.

(He’d showed up for tea looking positively haggard, but perked up considerably under the influence of gentle teasing and caramelized pears .

By dinner, sadly, that real cheer was entirely gone.)

The march down to church seemed to perk him up a bit, at least; free of boy-herding duty for the walk down, he brought up the rear with Donna and Joan, listening to their talk with a little smile that spoke more of gentle exhaustion than manic denial.

It was so good to see him relatively content that it took Donna a moment to realize he was lingering hopefully at the church door with them as the boys filed in.

“Would it greatly trouble you if I were to sit with you during services?” he asked softly.

“I don’t see why it would,” Joan said, turning to Donna.

“Wouldn’t be any harm in that.” Donna nodded, smiling faintly at him in reassurance.

His shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you,” he said, perhaps a bit too fervently. “I’ve been … restive, lately, and I’d rather not set a bad example.”

“So, better to stay at the back where fewer people will notice, then?” Donna offered.

John blinked, as if startled by the idea.. “Oh? Ah, yes, yes, of course.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “We should go in.”

“After you,” Donna gestured in, nudging Joan and John in ahead of her in part to be able to see everyone they were going in towards and in part to make sure _one last time_ to look over her shoulder for anything else that would need immediate attention. Paranoia was useful in only certain situations, but having it when you didn’t need it was in theory better than not having it when you did need it.

She was in time to see John hand Joan into the pew and slide in himself. He turned, looked strangely relieved to see her again, and offered her a hand as well.

It… felt odd, being separated from Joan, even if just by John sitting between them, but Donna took the offered hand as she settled herself onto the end of the pew anyway.

He offered her a grateful but oddly guilty little smile as she sat, and leaned just close enough to whisper in her ear without touching her at any point save his hand in hers.

“Being around you just makes everything better.”

He squeezed her hand and turned dutiful attention to the pulpit.

And she really should be used to the feeling of familiar calluses against her skin. He was warmer than the Doctor was, but it was still the same hand. Why was it now sending a completely different sort of adrenaline down her spine?

The service began, but she couldn’t have told anyone what it was about.

He held her hand until he had to hold the hymnal, and when he could put it down, he cut her a hopeful look and very gently took her hand again. Whatever shreds of focus she’d managed to scrape together while he and Joan participated in the service scattered in the winds again.

This was ridiculous. She was usually better than this.

But he was calm, calmer than she’d ever seen him, really.

She could afford to lose herself for a little while, if it meant he got to stay safe within his own head.

The service ended on what she assumed was a positive note, if the almost visceral comfort everyone was exuding by its end was anything to go by. She would grant them this -- the church was very good at provoking a sense of community, if nothing else. The Sunday tithe was passed around as everyone packed up, and she almost absently tugged a few pounds from her own pocket to place in with the rest.

John squeezed her hand again and let go to make his own offering. “Thank you,” he whispered as he passed the plate. “That … helped. A great deal.”

“I’m glad,” she replied, and found it was true. “Will you, ah… be joining us in town, after this?”

He perked up. “I’d like--” but then slumped. “But no, I’m afraid I’ve the escort duty back. I suppose I could come down after--?”

“If you go anywhere after you’ve discharged your duties, it’s to _bed,_ Mister Smith,” Joan said firmly. “There are bags _for_ the bags under your eyes, and those I could fit my entire infirmary in. You can come next week-- _if_ you pass a checkup that you’re fit for classes tomorrow morning.”

John laughed nervously. “I’m really not--” he caught Joan’s eye. “--going to argue,” he corrected himself midstream. “But if you’d allow for next week?” he turned to hope at Donna.

“I’m not the Matron, unfortunately,” she replied, dryly. “Your health is priority.”

“But you’re so good for me,” he teased with far too much sincerity for her comfort. “I promise I’ll do my best to rest. I just … do better with incentive.”

“The sooner the rest, the better chance you have,” Joan said firmly. “Off you go.”

“Yes, Matron,” he grinned, “But you’ll have to let me out from between you first.”

“Oh-- right.” Donna startled, shuffling to her feet off of the end of the pew so he could slide out. “Sorry.”

“Never apologize for something like that,” he winked, and tipped his hat to them as he went.

They watched him join the boy-herding efforts.

“Well,” Joan said after a moment, “ _He_ certainly improved dramatically.”

“He has.” Donna nodded, reluctant to drag her eyes away from him again. “Shame he can’t join us in town.”

“But he does need the rest, and _you_ promised me something Thursday morning, which I intend to collect,” her friend said firmly. “There’s always next week. He is at least _supposed_ to be a grown man.”

Donna groaned good naturedly, nodding. “Let’s go, then. Long walk, then privacy.”

Joan took her arm as they got up, leading her out a little side door into the churchyard. “This way, so we don’t get caught by the Marys wanting to hear about how John held your hand the entire service,” she said with a laugh.

“I’m not going to ever live that down if they find out.” Donna agreed, privately bemoaning that _Joan_ had even been aware of it, but heaven forbid the combined forces of Mary Goodacre and Mary Hodges _ever_ found out. She trailed after Joan through the quieter churchside, slipping out into the town proper while most of the congregation was still clustered up inside, and they were quiet as they hurried out of town.

It was at least a pleasant walk, but that was as much a drawback as a benefit; as long as they were walking, Donna didn’t have to talk about it yet. But like most things that Donna knew about time… the more you were dreading something, the faster it felt like the time before it would go. Spaceman would probably start babbling about perceptual and relative Time and how Time never _actually_ went faster or slower even if you were having fun, but it still _felt_ like it.

And now she was missing them again.

The idiot.

Joan paused just outside the TARDIS’ shelter, blinking down at something. “...Did she do something to the lock from the inside, to let you out when you arrived?”

Donna paused with her hand on the door, following Joan’s eyes to the rusted latch padlock resting on the ground as if it had fallen off while the door was closed and then been pushed by the door opening. “Must have,” she decided. “Looks like it was rusted off. Spaceman’d probably say something about a localized bubble of… I dunno. Time being made to fast-forward, or something, even though time can’t _actually_ fast-forward, but she’s capable of things that even they don’t know about, so...”

“So it’s likely, but who knows,” Joan summed up, and opened the door for her. “Hello,” she said shyly.

“Back again, love.” Donna said as she pulled the door shut behind them both. “How you feeling?”

The TARDIS answered with a soft, sleepy _thrum._

“We’re sorry to wake you up,” Joan murmured, running a gentle hand over blue wood, “But Donna has a story to tell me.”

The door opened itself under her hand. Donna smiled fondly at the sight. “She likes you.”

Joan blushed. “I’m honoured. Come on, we needn’t stand about.”

Donna felt the soft brush through the back of her mind, and knew that the TARDIS was picking up on both her reluctance and trepidation, and the reasoning for it, and putting together what ‘story’ she had to tell Joan. There was a faint sense of fond amusement, and she stuck out her lower lip at the blue box in an exaggerated pout.

“Oh, not you too.” She fake-grumped as she followed Joan into the console room. “I get it, you thought we were both idiots to go in there, no need for I told you so’s. That was _entirely_ their fault, I just had to follow them to get them back _out_!”

Joan stopped short. “...in where? Did the Doctor visit the Neighbors on _purpose?_ ”

“I was just telling them about the stories I grew up on, the sort my gran always told.” Donna said, strolling over to the rarely if ever used jumpseat around the back of the console and dropping down into it, immediately tugging a leg up onto the seat to hug her knee. “They got it in their head that if the Neighbors _were_ real and _did_ exist then it was worth going to _meet_ them, and wouldn’t hear a word I said otherwise about it being _dangerous_.”

Joan followed her more slowly. “... _’If’_? Didn’t you say they were terrifically old and had been all across space and time? How could they not know the Neighbors are real? Do the Good Folk stick only to Earth or something--but no, you said the Doctor’s fond of humans and comes here all the time. How does anyone interact with humans and _not_ know about the Neighbors?”

Donna sighed, “...thing is, we’ve got a really limited perception on this, as I’ve come to understand it. To us they were always there. But… how’d the Doctor put it… they weren’t always there _before._ ” She scooted to one side of the jumpseat, patting the other side for Joan to sit.

“‘Before’ what?” Joan wondered, taking a seat beside her. “How does ‘before’ work when they can be … ‘anywhen’?”

“That’s just it, innit?” Donna mused. “They _can_ be anywhen. Like how you and I can walk down to church from the school, but we can also leave the church, we’re not just always in the church. The Neighbors don’t interact with time like we do, to them it’s… more like physical space, I guess? They can _occupy_ it. And they can _leave_ it. _Before_ is a place to them, and _now_ they’re there, but they weren’t always.”

“I think I’ve lost track of which they is which,” Joan said after a moment. “The Neighbors … don’t care about time, because it’s meaningless to them, so they can hop in and out of it, like hopping in and out of a brook?”

“...kind of? It’s harder to explain without you actually having _been_ to Elsewhere -- that is, Tír na nÓg, Underhill, the Hunting Grounds and the Courts, that sort of… place. The feeling there is entirely unlike anywhere else. Time doesn’t touch it at all.” She hummed, frustrated. “And I’m getting out of order. Basically… we went there. And it was stupid, and reckless, and terrifying. But…”

“But?” Joan prompted.

“Well. But. To the Doctor it was like an amusement park.” Donna sighed fondly. “Least they followed my rule and didn’t use my name while we were there. Had to all but beat that into their thick skull, to just call me ‘Red’ at least until we got out.” she tightened her hold around her leg. “Didn’t seem to matter much. We got caught, and they got captured, and next thing I knew I was in the Winter Court, and they were in a frost-and-silver cage, with arrows pointed at them, and I had to think very fast and very smart while faced down with the Queen herself.”

The console room was very, very quiet for a few moments. Joan had gone white as a sheet.

“...You met her. You had to negotiate for a prisoner of _Hers?”_ she whispered. “The Queen Who Ends The Year, the one the play calls _**Titania**?_”

Donna took a deep breath, tilting her head back and focusing her eyes on the ceiling. “...there’s a reason the local _sidhe_ knew my name.” she said, quietly. “All of them do. Even the Queen of the Winter Court knew it, and we’d definitely _not_ said it once outside of the TARDIS. I dunno how, it hasn’t happened yet for me. But they do.”

“And it’s important enough to force young Latimer to See it. Enough to drain him that much, enough to terrify Mr. Narayan-Singh,” Joan said slowly. “Something that has the Neighbors indebted to _you._ ...Is that why they let the Doctor free? Because of what they owed, will owe, you?”

“Dunno.” Donna admitted. “Negotiations with the Queen were… more than I could handle, really. I barely remember what it was I said, or how I got us out of there. I was half panicked the entire time. I think I said something about me being a controlling factor, to the Doctor, so they wouldn’t make as much trouble so long as I was travelling with them. Might’ve tried to twist it some to make it sound like _the Neighbors_ were doing _me_ a favor, taking the Doctor off my hands… which was stupid risky and extremely liable to backfire now that I think back on it. Like I said, I was panicked stupid.” She gave a brief, overwhelmed laugh, pushing her hands over her face. “I don’t think I had a single proper coherent thought from the moment I stepped into the Winter Court until I’d dragged them home and we’d slammed the TARDIS doors shut behind us again and got the hell out of there.” Another weak giggle. “Wasn’t lying when I told Tim it took me _weeks_ to recover.”

Joan pulled her into a tight hug. “I should think so! For all of it! And they’d better have spoilt you _rotten_ all that time, or they’ve earned another slap when they get back.” She sighed. “And even here it’s probably not that safe to ask more details, so it’s just as well you don’t have them. Still, though, you never said--”

“Never said what?”

“‘They were always there, but they weren’t always there _before._ ’ _Before_ what? What was _before_ , for the Doctor?”

\--

From the _Journal of Impossible Things_

Sunday, 28 September 1913

Queer mood since Thursday morning: hyper-aware, tense muscles, constantly checking about me, liable to jump out of my skin at the slightest provocation. And yet I’ve been cheerful nearly the entire time, and aside from OTC the days have been quite pleasant, or _should_ have been. The boys have been tense and worried, all our reassurances to the contrary, and perhaps that has been contagious. It’s hard to look cheerful for the boys when I’m worried myself, and it’s all fed into my dreams: more of those child-soldier nightmares, and children in peril of everything from which I’ve failed to save them

Perhaps love-sickness binds ill-well with anxiety.

  
  


OTC was particularly ghastly. Trigger discipline was excellent, thank everything good in the world, but giving even _practise_ rifles to eighty boys already half-convinced that every shadow is a lurking Neighbor out to steal alway one of their comrades or else to personally punish _them_ for their part in nearly causing two of them to be stolen is _precisely_ as bad an idea as one might expect. What a mercy the backstop is still under construction.

~~I pray it isn’t up before the snow flies.~~

But in all of the unmitigated chaos and horror there was still a bright prospect:

Tea with ~~Donna~~ Miss Noble.

Love-sickness has its benefits as well as its debits; at all the worst points of tension, all this weekend, the very thought or sight of her, much less her close presence, was enough to calm my conflicting emotions and allow me to function, even to feel, more or less like a human being. I emerged from OTC that Saturday morning feeling as if I’d never be able to scrub clean, but by teatime I could smile for her and mean it.

She saw right through me, of course, but was kind enough not to tax me on it.

She criticized my office organization instead.

She _said_ it was to ‘prepare a place for Her Ladyship if you’re really insisting on that stupid name,’ but it was very obviously and adorably an excuse, and I loved her a little more for it.

By the end of tea I was _really_ happy, not pretending, and even I could feel it.

It was gone by dinner-time, but by then I could sit with Miss Noble on one side and Challpner on the other, and that was enough to survive on.

To put it plainly:

Donna makes everything better.

I shan’t even correct myself. Not for this. Some things are too elemental for politeness.

Perhaps that emotional rescue explains the rather more literal rescue she gave me

in my most recent dream.

The question of the Neighbors is an interesting one; even in the face of so much evidence, even as I fret myself mad over the threat they pose to my students' safety, it is somehow still so difficult to know with certainty that they are truly 'out there,' just as the stories said; that the stories are meant not so much as entertainment as for _warning._

That the warnings aren't misunderstandings or superstition, but lessons learned the hard way from an entire species' effort to comprehend rules and mores so different from their own that they read as merest whimsy.

It still feels as it did on Wednesday morning, as if I woke up after an entire life without having to pay any mind to gravity whatsoever, only to find that gravity was a fundamental force and that everyone else knew all about it, expected _me_ to know all about it, and could not remember or conceive of a time it had been otherwise.

  
~~~~

Perhaps it was that which made Donna’s stories so compelling.

After a certain point in human history the Neighbors simply vanish beyond human ken; if they are still about, they choose not to let humans see them, so that by Donna’s time they are thought just as much a myth as they are in Nottingham.

  


[Editor’s Note: Due to prior ‘conversations’ in the journal, it may be reasonable to assume that John Smith and ‘the Doctor’ are two entities in the same system, very likely dissociative identities from the distinctive writing style differences as well as the personality differences. Members of a shared system can often be entirely unaware of one another, and the mind can also deliberately block out or refuse to process any evidence left behind from other system members. While it is hardly the work of an editor to diagnose such a thing so long after the original writing, this appears to be the case between alters John Smith and ‘the Doctor’.

It does not explain the apparent confusion over the placement in time of Miss Donna Noble, who shows no signs of such a mental state beyond her apparent placement in John’s dreams alongside the self-professed time traveller.]

And yet Donna has told me a _wealth_ of stories of the Neighbors, and tells them with the fervor and terror of one who has taken every one of them to heart.

Apparently she was taught them--’drilled in them’ might be more accurate--by her maternal grandmother, who believed every bit as firmly even as she lived through the time in which such belief began to fade (war kills beliefs and men both, it seems), and took care to teach her granddaughter the same. Her daughter had never listened.

But Donna soaked in every word and every warning, and was perfectly willing--eager, truly--to share them with me.

I would have listened to anything she had to say, deny it though I might, but for modern, practical, thoroughly grounded Donna to tell tales like that with such fervor of beings I’d thought mere myth until suddenly they weren’t--I _had_ to know more.

Curiosity is both my _bete noir_ and my _raison d’etre_.

And so it was that we sought a suitable entrance to Faerie. I don’t properly remember how we found it or where it was that we did; it’s all blotted out by the ring of flowers on the scanner and Donna’s death-grip on my arm as she held me back from the doors by main force, and the worry--the _terror_ \--in her voice as she begged me to reconsider.

  
  


I didn’t understand, of course. Hardly more than I do now, for all the terror they brought me, for all the terror they’ve brought my students. I’d better understand lightning out of a clear sky.

I listened, I _always_ listened to Donna, but I didn’t understand. I thought that no one but Time Lords could _truly_ understand the power of a Name.

I didn’t realize that ‘the Doctor’ could be a name to conjure with--that _has_ been conjured with.

There’ve been so many stories that had a grain of truth in them, grains I found but that were inaccurate or misattributed or simply misunderstood. What was one more alien-to-me race known only in legend?

Wasn’t I one such, and by my own hand?

  
  


How easily I forgot waking up a new man and finding that every memory was pain.

How easily I forgot realizing that so many of the ones of humans I remembered two ways.

So many of my human friends carried iron, tested with iron, made jokes about iron. Jamie kept his as close as his sporran; he’d’ve considered himself undressed without it--and yet he didn’t. Even Tegan, as rooted and practical as Donna, called being on the TARDIS kidnapped under the Hill--and yet she didn’t. UNIT had always carried iron and salt as well as other armaments--and yet they didn’t.

The Neighbors had always been there, and yet they had not been there yesterday.

And I _still_ couldn’t take them seriously.

Even stepping across the ring hand in hand with Donna wasn’t enough. The Divergent Universe looped on itself, every moment had happened before and would happen again, but _there were moments_ , progressing from one to the next _._

In that place there is no Time at all. Not just a sense of nothing happening or a feeling of pause, a complete lack of the internal clock. _My_ internal clock. Which was always accurate down to the picosecond.

It was simply… gone.

But it didn’t hurt, and I was excited, and I couldn’t bother to care.

There were wonders on wonders, and without Time there was no responsibility, and with no responsibility there could be no consequences--

\--or so it seemed.

Even without Time, the ground could still give way.

Donna could still fall.

I would like to say that at this point I remembered to be terrified. I even was, for a time

or at least for what my mind interpreted as a span of time (so strange to be at the mercy of perception); I certainly rushed about to try to find a way down, to find Donna, to rescue her if need be or to see if something needed rescued--

\--until I saw _it._

  


I can’t properly describe it now; how does one write or sketch temptation? It was glorious; it smelled like all that was good.

Even I know not to eat Faerie food, though I know it more as an idiom. I didn’t take a _bite_.

But taking a sample for later observation was quite enough.

The summer-bright skies turned black; thunder clapped quite out of order, little caring that the lightning came _behind_ it--

\--and I cared just as little, because frost-and-silver shackles had clapped ‘round my wrists, burning bitter as liquid nitrogen, and a cage of the same was building itself around me, and when that strange world pretended to make sense again, my cage was the chief display in a court of impossible splendour.

  


Everything changed.

For just a (perceptive) moment, I knew, directly, what Donna was so afraid of, what was so immeasurably alien to her, the echo of which she had once seen in me so long ago:

Even here, in this place which was not a place, in this time which had no Time

before me was a ~~person~~ _being_ that could

and did

change the entire shape of my future.

In an _instant._

Based on a _whim._

Certainly, others had before. Of course they had. But Titania was _something._ Something even beyond _my_ ken.

Here memory goes stranger yet; I think that I must have spoken

and I know that I was spoken to

but the words will not come. There is only the cage, and Titania's face, the memory of silence…

And the bitter dread.

Not for myself, no.

For Donna, and what she might do to save me from my own stupidity.

  
  


Relief of my own, when she came anyway.

I've never been so relieved to be 'Spaceman.' Or so worried.

What few words I do remember are Donna's, heard mostly while trying to find some way to win myself out without costing Donna something precious, or at least some way to reduce the price.

I really can't blame her for telling Titania I was more trouble than I was worth.

It did hurt to hear her describe traveling together as a chore, my company as a burden she'd be just as relieved to forego, but "tell all the truth / but tell it slant." Keeping me in order is a (too often literally) thankless job, and Titania did seem to believe it.

Framing it as a favor _Titania_ was doing _Donna_ , though? That was risky. Even I knew that.

I may have panicked.

  


There was a lump of ice about the size and weight of a cricket ball, and I'd been tossing it between my hands to keep occupied, and my hand slipped.

It caused a rather spectacular chain reaction of catastrophe.

Donna, thankfully, had enough wits about her to use the chaos to emphasize her point. She was obsequious about it, as though actively attempting to wrangle her way out to freedom again, and Titania had a look that could freeze the centers of feeding black holes. At the thought of keeping me! Somehow, even though it shouldn’t have been, it was working.

But…

But somehow, I don’t know how, Titania _knew her name._

I don’t need to sketch it to remember that terror forever.

(It’s funny. They don’t resemble each other at all, but as Titania began to speak of favors owed and debts to be paid, I remember thinking that the faerie monarch and Donna looked very much alike.)

And so it came to pass that, somehow, it was to be considered a favor _to Titania_ if Donna were to continue travelling with me and remain, as she claimed, a mitigating factor. The cage melted away around me, I was jostled quite roughly to my feet and practically thrown onto Donna again, and she somehow managed to keep her voice calm even while holding my arm tight enough to actually hurt _me_.

The journey back is a blur, which may have been as much a measure of how much the lands of Faerie wanted _us_ out of them as we wanted to _be_ out.

(There may be something wrong with that sentence, but I’m too tired to try to correct it. I’m not certain how much I’ve slept since Thursday.)

What stands out most is Donna’s urgency, and my own, her heart pounding and her hissed instructions not to run, not to run, they _hunt_ what runs, and my own babbling about tickling vicious three-horned giraffes (I think I was still trying to make myself sound like far too much trouble to keep around), and the pure glorious _relief_ of clearing the flower boundary, of seeing that blessed blue, of nearly crashing through the doors and _racing_ to the console to send us into the Vortex at last.

And Donna collapsing in a dead faint as soon as we were there.

I was in time to keep her from hitting her head--

  


\--and of course the grating turned to pillows underneath us; the TARDIS dotes on Donna.

As did I, when she woke up at last.

  


She’d just convinced me

that a spa was the best possible sort of recuperation when I woke up.

  
  
  


[There is a great blotted black-and-red-brown smudge here, which analysis does indicate is a mixture of blood and ink.]

  


Why do I always fall asleep at my pen?

Ink on my face _again,_ and why am I scribbling instead of rushing to clean up, I’m going to be late!

[Another blot, as of a pen forgotten on the page.]

[Below it, likely added later, an image of Miss Noble, with a faerie fruit cradled between her hands. Her hair is hanging messily in her face, and she looks tired, but unwavering.]

 _ **My**_ Faerie Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John quotes Emily Dickenson! https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56824/tell-all-the-truth-but-tell-it-slant-1263
> 
> Doctor handwriting:  
> 1\. Or maybe I’m just an idiot who _thought_ they knew how humans work.  
> Note: removing the memory of trauma and the mental component of panic attacks doesn’t seem to help with the related physical symptoms. And I can’t exactly reset the psychelock parameters to account for that.  
> Further note:  
> NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN.
> 
> 2\. You soppy git.
> 
> 3\. ME.  
> Me, you numpty.  
> Not you.
> 
> 4\. That's pretty much exactly how it went,  
> if by "Wednesday" you mean "Time War."
> 
> ~~Gravity's just a state of mind.~~
> 
> 5\. You should not be aware of these things. Especially not that Donna’s from another time!  
> What changed so quickly? I hope Donna takes the watch to the TARDIS…
> 
> 6\. No, she’s told ME the stories. YOU got a precis of the rules--though you at least listened to them better than I did.
> 
> 7\. Well that’s just Sylvia. Her scorn and disbelief might as well be a ward all by themselves.
> 
> 8\. Do you even notice you’re calling her that?
> 
> 9\. ...That one’s a fair cop for both of us.
> 
> 10\. I’d never seen her so shaken before.Not even when hearing the Oodsong.This was a fear that was entirely human, and one which I couldn’t comprehend.  
> I still can’t.  
> Not really.
> 
> 11\. But that’s just it.  
> Before the Time Lock, they were stories; stories many knew and some believed, the more the farther back you went in the human timeline, but STORIES.  
> There were no iron tests Before.
> 
> 12\. I always know when my own timeline changes.
> 
> 13\. It was only a story.
> 
> 14\. My hearts could skip a beat.
> 
> 15\. Except there was no time
> 
> 16\. ‘It’ was a fruit. Or at least it looked like one. On the outside it even looked somewhat like a pomegranate. What caught my attention was the smell -- specifically, the fact that it smelled exactly like the banana bread that Donna had made that morning.  
> I would learn later from Donna that if she were to smell it, it would smell of ozone and petrichor.  
> It’s apparently meant to smell like the best thing you’ve ever smelled. It’s a temptation.  
> One which I failed.
> 
> 17\. Even for me, Titania’s Court was impressive.  
> Almost as impressive as the fact that you’re still awake right now. I don’t usually get this much freedom to write without you passing out. What’s changed?
> 
> 18\. Hm. Don’t like that, that’s weirdly direct.
> 
> 19\. I’ve met others who could.
> 
> 20\. True opposites are so rare.
> 
> 21\. ‘Course I did, this gob never stops. Tried to charm her. It didn’t work, but she seemed amused, which wasn’t really a comfort.
> 
> 22\. At length. Rudeness, responsibilities, duty, the hope that I would be an _entertaining_ guest, which didn’t sound fun in the least…
> 
> 23\. There was never any moment where I doubted she would find her way back to me. And even less time spent wondering if she would leave me behind, even if I told her to go. Donna is nothing if not loyal to a fault.  
> I will still never forget what her face looked like when she finally found me again.  
> Terror. Relief. Reckless determination.
> 
> 24\. It was true, to an extent.  
> Stung, but it was true.
> 
> 25\. Well. Concerned, definitely. There may have been some mildly perturbed improvising.  
> Still not sure how I shattered the _entire_ twenty foot high ice sculpture centerpiece, though.
> 
> 26\. Oh. Right. That’s how.
> 
> 27\. Well. But.  
> I didn’t break her rule. I hadn’t called her anything but “Red” since we had stepped into the land of the Faerie. _It wasn’t my fault._
> 
> 28\. Not an easy feat, mind you.
> 
> 29\. Not NEARLY enough.
> 
> 30\. I’m not sure I’ve ever moved so fast. Not in this body, at least.
> 
> 31\. and it was so good to have Time again, to feel it, and it was only then I truly realized the ache of missing it all that not-time. Like fraying edges on the soul.  
> Time Lords aren’t meant to be disconnected from Time. 
> 
> 32\. She slept a day and a half. Well, subjective time.  
> She was confined to the infirmary for much longer.
> 
> 33\. or at least, I let her think she’d convinced me; it was my idea in the first place
> 
> 34\. Be glad of that.  
> Be very, very glad.  
> Now, I’ll be shocked if your nose isn’t bleeding by now.  
> I’ve definitely been here too long.
> 
> 35\. There it is.  
> Time to go, John.


	17. a sweet gallant, surely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncomfortable awarenesses abound.
> 
> (NOTE: Edited 12 December 2020 to add some bits to the journaling scene. Lovely juicy bits, mwahahahaha.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: Mentions of menstruation and other uterus-related difficulties.
> 
> Content warnings: Lukas Bloody Moffat. Oh, and some slightly graphic hypotheticals.
> 
> Author Sanity Notes: This is going up without the usual formatting magic because Tini's Going Through It. Eventually magic will happen, but it can damn well wait until they're healthy enough to handle it. If you have a problem with that, take it up with Wren. *tigery grin* (End notes will remain as they are in anticipation of later Magic.)

“I can’t believe it’s already almost October. It feels like I _blinked_ and everything happened...”

They had just finished the trek back into town, with Donna carrying a new small knapsack of supplies from the TARDIS, including the psychic paper, an overcoat, and a few more books for her tiny library, and Joan with a fairly nice new dress folded neatly and draped over one arm that Donna had gently bullied her into taking from the Wardrobe. The mid-afternoon sun had chased away the lingering chill of the morning, but the breeze would occasionally pick up and remind everyone that September 28th was one of the few remaining days before autumn set in in earnest.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s been nearly a month since you arrived, no.” Joan allowed, chuckling softly. “You’ve settled in quite well, don’t you think? You’ve a job, and friendships in the town…”

“Suppose,” Donna hummed noncommittally, “It’s nice to at least have some comfort, for however long we’re going to be here.”

“Speaking of comforts, shall we stop for tea? I don’t think you’ve had much chance to explore the town, have you?”

“Not much, no. I don’t get much chance to leave the school other than Sundays, and the last couple have been going out to see her.” She noted, smiling faintly towards Joan. “Tea does sound lovely. Though I’m not sure if I’m ready yet to face down the Marys. I can still barely believe he was so insistent myself.”

"They hold court at the Vicarage on Sunday afternoons when there aren't events to be run. We should be safe enough," Joan promised a little too merrily. "As for Mr. Smith… he looked so haggard I doubt he paid the congregation any mind at all. And l haven't the heart to tease you about it… _much_."

“You’re ever so gracious.” Donna drawled back, before stopping midstep. Her hand slipped down to press against her abdomen, and her brow furrowed. “Oh.”

"'Oh'?" Joan repeated, reaching for her. "What is it? Are you in pain?"

“...It’s been a month.” Donna reiterated, blinking. Her jaw twitched. “I… think it might be best if we make our way back up to the school.”

Her friend's brow furrowed for a moment before comprehension washed over her face. "To beat the monthly caller? Do you have your preferred supplies?"

“I do, up in my suitcase,” Donna said, “I’m just worried I won’t be able to move easily much longer if I’ve already started cramping.” Her voice was already taking on a slight strained note.

“Then let’s hurry,” Joan said quickly. “Give me your things.”

Donna didn’t argue. She just slipped the knapsack off of her shoulder and handed it over, letting her other hand join the first in pressing gently against her lower abdomen.

Joan shrugged it on. “Come. We can get a ride in town, there’s always someone ready at the inn.”

“I might ask Rocastle if I can bring work upstairs to our room for tomorrow,” Donna mused aloud, wincing and forcing herself to breathe steadily. “Lord knows I won’t be much good getting out of bed. Once we’re up at the school it will be an ordeal just getting up the stairs tonight, let alone going down them again...”

“Leave that to me,” Joan said firmly. “George knows better than to argue with me on health matters in general, and women’s matters in specific. And you’re not so heavy we couldn’t find someone to carry you if need be.”

Her mouth twisted into a wry, pained smile. “Ain’t that a flattery.”

“Less snipping and more walking. You know perfectly well you’re lovely.”

“You’re one to talk.” But she let the subject drop, following Joan more readily back into town, eager enough to get back to the school that she would pass the banter in favor of it.

Joan strode ahead as they reached the edge of town, ducking into the inn and emerging with Mr. Hodges before Donna had quite caught up. He returned with a young man Donna didn’t know, who rushed off across the street, and somehow Donna was being bundled gently up into the grocer’s cart and Joan handed up after in less time than it took to talk about it. “Young William is walking out with the groundskeeper’s daughter,” Joan murmured in her ear as they set off. “He’s as eager to get there as we are.”

“Good on him.” Donna mumbled back, closing her eyes and breathing sharply through her nose, pressing her hands a bit more firmly again, “‘specially if he’s doing it without getting caught.”

Joan wrapped an arm around her. “Only by me, and she knows to come to me if anything happens they aren’t ready for,” she said mildly. “How bad is it?”

Donna bit at her lip, before pulling a hand away and wrapping it around Joan’s thinner arm, squeezing at a near-bruising pressure to give her an idea of how bad the pain was. “Coming in waves.” She grit out. “Not too bad yet, but steadily getting worse.”

Joan squeezed back without complaint. “Do you think you’ll be able to get to our rooms? We could go to the infirmary instead.”

“Spent so much time there recently already,” Donna refuted, trying her best and failing a little bit at not making it a whine. Her fingers clenched and held around a particularly strong surge, and her nostrils flared on it.

“Then I think we’d best recruit help.” The nurse frowned. “We’ll have to see who’s about before I can plan further.” She pulled Donna a little closer. “Rest a bit.”

Donna let herself be pulled in, until she was leaning outright into Joan’s shoulder. Like this she was certain the school matron had a better tactile sense of when her muscles tensed, and when they loosened again as each cramp crested and eased like waves against the shore. The cramps weren’t perfectly rhythmic -- there were some that came in quick succession, and some that eased off for a minute or two between them.

The cart continued trundling up the road, jolting a bit on the uneven path but making good time, and Donna eased down into a faintly distant fugue while they travelled, mentally distancing herself from the recurring pressure-pain. If nothing else, it made the trip back seem to end sooner.

She barely registered the rattle and thump of the cart rolling to a stop. “Don’t move yet,” Joan said gently. “Some of the boys are out on the lawn, we can send them for help. Hutchinson!”

“Yes, Matron?”

“Are Messers Denman or Challpner about? Miss Noble needs help up to our rooms--”

“Perhaps I may be of assistance?” drawled a too-familiar, too-unctuous voice.

“ _No you absolutely may not._ ” Donna wasn’t even aware of the decision to snap, but her voice needed no permission. She would rather walk on knives up the stairs by herself than deal with Lukas _bloody_ Moffat right now, and she had no patience to pretend to be polite. Challpner and Denman would even be pushing it, to be frank, though they were at least somewhat more acceptable.

He tsked indulgently. “You must be in a very bad way indeed. Not to worry, we’re none of us at our best when ill--”

“If you _touch_ me, I will _maul _you.”

“Mister Moffat, while I thank you for the thought, you are distressing my patient,” Joan said with strained patience. “Kindly summon other assistance.”

“When I am right here offering? Hardly logical--”

“Is there some problem, Moffat, ladies?” asked John.

Donna’s stomach flipped with relief, and she turned to look at him beseechingly. _Yes, please, make Moffat leave me the bloody hell alone._

“A minor bout of hysterics,” Moffat drawled. “Miss Noble is refusing assistance up to her room.”

“I’m not refusing assistance in general, just assistance from _you_.” Donna snapped, louder than intended, beyond the point of no return with regards to her patience or lack thereof, “Get it through your skull. I’m in pain and I don’t want you near me! Simple as that!”

“She hardly knows what she’s saying,” Moffat began.

John cut him off with a glare that was almost terrifyingly familiar. Donna felt Joan shiver at her side at the sight of it -- and she didn’t blame her. There was a whisper of the Oncoming Storm in that glare, and even Moffat flinched a little.

If she hadn’t seen the full effect before, it would even scare her a little bit. But she knew it could be so much _more_.

“She seems quite clear in her request,” John said with icy calm. “A gentleman’s duty is to offer aid and comfort to a lady, not to run roughshod over her wishes.”

There were murmurs of agreement from a host of boys. Of _course_ there was an audience. Moffat scowled, stung as much by the loss of face as the strike against his chivalry.

John turned to Donna, face immediately so kind and earnest she could almost think the glare had never been. “Miss Noble, would my assistance be acceptable under the circumstances?”

Donna ground her teeth together, inhaling on another cresting cramp, but kept her voice even. “Theoretically, would you back off if I said no?” she grit out, with a brief, sharp glare flashed toward Moffat. She knew his answer, of course, but she wanted to grind salt in the wound, right now.

“Of course,” John answered instantly. “We could find another way, or I’d fetch someone more acceptable to you.”

“Then yes,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster given that she wanted to slice her stomach open with a letter opener, and felt that that might hurt _less_. “You may assist me, Mr. Smith.”

John bowed a little and bent to lift her from the cart, gathering her into a bridal carry with far greater ease than she really could have expected. How sloppy had the Doctor _been_ with the transformation?

“Now see here,” Moffat began, his face going a blotchy and unpleasant shade of puce.

“No one wants to hear it!” Donna snapped, “Just-- shut the _bloody hell up_!”

There was a moment of resounding silence.

“If you’d lead the way, Matron,” John said mildly. If he was shocked by her language, he wasn’t showing it.

“Of course, Mr Smith,” said Joan, setting off.

They left Moffat fuming in their wake, surrounded by a horde of boys trying manfully not to grin.

\--

“We’re well out of that,” Tim murmured, eyes intent on something beyond the dorm window.

“Well out of what?” Anand wondered. It was unlikely to be whatever was actually out the window, of course--Tim was looking vaguely in the direction of the grass at the foot of the building--but it might well be something on the grounds; he seemed fairly present today.

“Professor Moffat’s had his nose nipped off, in front of an audience. Might get nasty later.”

“Definitely well out of it. Here, use this.” Anand passed him a folded blanket. There was no point in going out on the grounds, not when every other boy in the school would be intent on soaking in some of the last rays of sun and outdoor leisure, but the ledge of the open window made a comfortable enough seat if you padded it and sat sideways.

Tim took it with a murmur of thanks and did just that, as Anand did the same.

They sat in peace for a little while, enjoying the sun and the quiet.

A hand gripped his wrist. “You’re wondering something.” Tim said abruptly.

Anand jumped, nearly losing his balance--

\--except for Tim’s hand.

He sighed. “I’m always wondering things, Tim. It just doesn’t do much good to ask them, when they’re about you.”

“I don’t mind if you ask.”

“I know _that._ But what’s the point when even you don’t have the answers?”

“I have some. You can ask this one.”

“...Do I want to?”

Tim shrugged. “I don’t think it’ll upset you. But you’re probably the only one who’d accept it.”

That offered no comfort, given the question tugging at the edge of his mind and the probable answer to that question. Anand sighed. “... why can’t you wear iron, Tim?”

Tim took his hand out of his pocket and opened it, palm flat, to show his nail--

\--and the nasty red, like a sunburn, from where he’d been gripping it for what must have been the last five minutes.

Anand wished he could be surprised.

“Mum was half,” Tim said softly. “I think. I know all these things, but none of them are about her. And Dad can’t stand to look at me, much less talk.”

That was no surprise, either. Anand saw his father more in six months than Tim had in six years, and _Anand’s_ family lived on a different _continent._

“And there’s no one else to ask,” Anand said. It wasn’t a question.

Tim smiled wryly. “Oh, there’s always someone to ask, but I might not enjoy the results of asking. Any unknown relations might decide that I’m interested in being family and bring me back into the fold, and I’m not quite done being Tim Latimer yet, thanks ever so.”

“Relations not from your da’s side, then?” Anand mused, rhetorically, before shaking his head. “That’s… still going to be a lot to come to terms with, but I think I understand.”

A huff of laughter. “Then you’re doing better than I am--ow!”

“Mrowl!” said someone else, indignant, and there was a loud scrabbling at … the wall underneath them? Anand peered down, only to find …

...a small, grumpy calico cat, back claws scrabbling at the outer wall for purchase, front claws hooked into Tim’s trousers.

“You could have just _asked,_ ” said Tim, mildly irritated, and took hold of her scruff. The cat hissed.

“Stop that, I’m _helping_ you. You’ve got the entirely wrong windowsill, anyway, Professor Smith’s clear on the other side of the house.”

The cat was not impressed, or at least that was the impression Anand gained from the furious little snarl. Tim deposited her on the sill between them, and she began washing her fur in high dudgeon.

“Professor Smith’s cat?” Anand asked, hesitantly placing his hand in the general vicinity of the cat without really reaching for her. He’d learned long ago to let cats decide the level of distance between them. If she was interested in anything from him, she’d be free to sniff, but otherwise unthreatened.

“It’s a work in progress,” Tim said absently.

“But there will be progress.” Anand interpreted, more than used to Tim’s Sight and used to reading between the lines of what he said and what he didn’t say.

“Mrp,” said the cat, giving Anand’s hand a sidelong glance, and then very pointedly washing a paw.

“Yes, I know you have your pride,” Tim said, “But _I_ know that it’s going to get cold soon--”

“Mow?”

“--yes, colder than at night without the rest of your litter. Killing colder.”

“...mrr,” said the cat, doubtfully.

“I also know that Professor Smith--that’s the Brown Stork, to you--”

Anand had to snap his free hand over his mouth to muffle the snort that startled its way out of him.

“--will feed you chicken liver every day. Yes, that’s bird parts. _You’ll_ get to eat _them_ , it’ll be a very convenient vengeance.”

Her ears were perked now. Definite interest--which she promptly tried to disguise by sniffing at Anand’s offered hand, then bunting it in a pointed request for scritches. Anand complied.

“It’ll be warm in here, and out of the wind, and Professor Smith will spoil you rotten with pillows just for you and won’t even yell when you sleep on his books instead. And there’ll still be mice to hunt, because they’ll try to chew the books.”

The cat purred. It was debatable if this was approval or appreciation of Anand’s skills at petting, though it could have been both.

“Plus he’ll get you toys, and the Kind Fire will pet you every day.”

Much louder purring, even though Anand hadn’t particularly changed how he was scritching her. Definite approval.

“And you won’t see it for awhile yet,” Tim said, gaze focused somewhere on the horizon, “But he has the best box in the _Universe.”_

The cat trilled, tail swishing in intrigue. Oh yes, Tim had her.

“He’s a bit busy today, though. But if you go see him tomorrow afternoon, you’ll have the best home a cat can ask for.”

“Mrrrrp,” said the cat, and claimed Anand’s lap for Spain. Tomorrow, it seemed, would do.

Anand continued patting her, trying for a few moments to decide how to approach this subject delicately, before calling that effort a wash and just asking outright. “...Should I be _worried_ that you can apparently speak cat?”

\--

_Sunday, 28 October 1913 additional_

_It seems I was correct; my Faerie Queen is most potent medicine. She very kindly allowed me to sit with her and Nurse Redfern in church this morning, and even to hold her hand for the entirety of the service!_

It’s a good thing you were all at  
the back, because she spent the entire time frozen.

_I was rather stunned by my own audacity, but with Donna I think that honesty must always be the best policy; when I simply_ told _her that I didn’t trust my manners, she made allowances for me, and -- I blush to admit --- when I told her my newly-found truth, that she makes things better, I dare to think that she blushed a bit in her turn. It was very lovely._

And you’re a soppier git every minute.  
Though she does blush rather nicely.

_She even went so far as to invite me to join her and the Matron_ _as they ran errands in town, but the yoke of duty compelled me to walk the boys back up to school, and the stern instructions of Nurse Redfern forbade me to return after--she had, after all, the entire service to see that I was unwell, and ordered me to rest as early as possible when my duties were done if I wished to have any hope of being allowed to teach in the morning. As it is now late afternoon, I do not think I am technically disobeying her by taking a moment to settle my thoughts with writing._

_For, truly, I must settle them or I shall never sleep--I held Donna in my arms today!_

You carried her up four flights of stairs  
because she was having the worst bout of  
dysmenorrhea I’ve seen since I  
convinced her to use 52nd century  
remedies, which of course she can’t very  
well do in 1913.

Hardly romantic.

Another tick for the ‘I asked  
far too much of Donna and have to find a  
way to spoil her in thanks’ column.

_It is churlish to celebrate when the cause was brought by her pain and Moffat’s continued dedication to being a selfish arse, but to be trusted with the safety and pride of so magnificent a woman_

*

He sets down his pen to rub at his eyes; the false energy of dedication and exhilaration is waning fast, leaving him painfully aware of dry, gritty eyes, aching joints (perhaps carrying Miss Noble so far had been a _trifle_ ambitious), and the enervation of every limb.

And yet--

They aren’t his, are they?

Not really.

He is only borrowing them.

Eyes, limbs, hands, brain, self...

_Mayfly_.

The word drifts up, contextless but accurate. He pinches the bridge of his nose harder, trying to force away the feeling. It doesn’t work.

_Ephemera._

This is temporary.

_He_ is temporary.

(ah. of course. even the most fleeting of existences cannot escape existential angst.)

...his pen is back in his hand.

(His _off_ hand.)

When did that happen?

...is worthy of a bit of pride, yes,  
I’ll give you that.

Why did you stop?

Who wrote that?

Did he write that? It doesn’t look like his handwriting. ~~Doesn’t it?~~

(Mechanically, he swaps hands.)

(Back.)

~~~~_Who are you,_ he manages to write.

(And forth.)

Oh, blimey, it’s weaker than I thought.

John, you’re exhausted.

Stop writing and go to sleep.

(And back.)

_Tell me who you are first_

You already know who I am.

Go to sleep before you give yourself a nosebleed.

Again.

(It gets easier.)

_No I don’t. Who are you and why are you writing in my journal?_

(More like muscle memory.)

I’m the spaceman in your dreams.  
I’ve been commenting the whole time,  
and you’re going to hurt yourself  
hanging about like this.

Go to BED.

(More like he's done this before.)

_Why should you care?_

(Has he done this before?)

Lots of reasons. Not least because, while  
I might resent you, I don’t actually  
wish you any harm.

(He's... thin. Not just physically. He's so thin as to be nearly see-through.)

(He's a mask.)

_Are you the Doctor?_

(He's seeing through the mask, now.)

(To the person beneath.)

You already know that, too.

(He's... They're...)

_Why am I here, if you are?_

Because I was trying to be kind.

_You’re very bad at it._

I know.

That shouldn’t make as much sense as it does.

Does it?

He can’t quite follow that thought, even though it’s his.

It is his, isn’t it?

( **Nothing is yours.** )

_I’m too tired for this. I’m going to bed._

Yes. Bed. Good idea. Yes.

Sleep well.

_Good night,_ he scribbles, or at least he thinks he does.

He barely remembers to close the blinds before he strips and falls into bed.

He does not dream.

\--

But she does.

She is falling again, and she knows she is despite the lack of any gravitational pull, despite any real shift in momentum to her own perception. Gravity itself is supposed to be falling forever, but what is falling forever without gravity at all?

Or maybe there is a gravity, toward the only thing she could ever fall towards, out at the end of the endless. Down into the center of a black hole, where gravity becomes so great that it ceases to be altogether.

The song rises out of her chest far sooner than before, as she stretches her hand forward beyond her head, reaching--

hoping--

_singing_.

*

_In the darkness, distant and unreachable..._

*

And her song is echoed, growing from her heart and called back out to her, matched and harmonized with and emboldened in rapture. The darkness immediately around her spirals golden, wrapping in gentle curves of shimmering stardust and warmth, and she feels her own song stutter, briefly, before redoubling with joyous intent.

The endless night is split with flares of light, amongst the gold that twists and dances with her; bursts of explosive vivacity, stars sparking and going nova in time with the song. Another harmony joins the refrain.

She knows these sights. She knows this song. It’s more than she could ever explain, in the waking world.

*

_The thing is, she does know she’s dreaming, too._

_Dreaming of that far off, lonely god at the end of everything._

_Dreaming herself closer each time she comes here._

_Wishful thinking, perhaps._

*

The song crescendos, and she feels certain that she could sing forever, back and forth with the supernovae and the spirals of gold. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, that she’ll be falling forever, that it’s likely she’ll never reach the end.

But then…

She doesn’t know what incites her to stop. Doesn’t know why the last note that escapes her is the last note that escapes her. Doesn’t know why the return songs echoing around her with no voices

(none of them have voices, here, not really)

slowly

so slowly

stop.

She doesn’t know why it strikes her, in that moment, that the song _must_ be silenced.

*

_But could they be dreaming of her in return?_

*

She closes her eyes, and listens.

*

_In the darkness, distant and unreachable_

_In the silence, soft and hidden_

_In the loneliness, deep and brooding_

_In the darkness, distant and unreachable, a lonely god waits…_

_and raises their heartsong_

_in an echo_

_in return._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctor handwriting:
> 
> 1\. It’s a good thing you were all at the back, because she spent the entire time frozen.
> 
> 2\. And you’re a soppier git every minute.  
> Though she does blush rather nicely.
> 
> 3\. You carried her up four flights of stairs because she was having the worst bout of dysmenorrhea I’ve seen since I convinced her to use 52nd century remedies, which of course she can’t very well do in 1913.  
> Hardly romantic.  
> Another tick for the ‘I asked far too much of Donna and have to find a way to spoil her in thanks’ column. 
> 
> 4\. ...is worthy of a bit of pride, yes,  
> I’ll give you that.
> 
> 5\. Why did you stop?
> 
> 6\. Oh, blimey, it’s weaker than I thought.  
> John, you’re exhausted.  
> Stop writing and go to sleep.
> 
> 7\. You already know who I am.  
> Go to sleep before you give yourself a nosebleed.  
> Again.
> 
> 8\. I’m the spaceman in your dreams.  
> I’ve been commenting the whole time, and you’re going to hurt yourself hanging about like this.  
> Go to BED.
> 
> 9\. Lots of reasons. Not least because, while I might resent you, I don’t actually wish you any harm.
> 
> 10\. You already know that, too.
> 
> 11\. Because I was trying to be kind.
> 
> 12\. I know.
> 
> 13\. Yes. Bed. Good idea. Yes.
> 
> 14\. Sleep well.


	18. by my troth, i am sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodies are highly inconvenient. 
> 
> Unexpected friends are lovely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY YO HEADS UP we did some major edits to the journal scene in last chapter on 12 Dec 2020. Miiiiight wanna check that out if you last read before then, fyi...

Somewhat to his own surprise, John Smith awoke the morning of Monday the 29th September refreshed, replenished, and so cheerful he might even have irritated _himself_ if he wasn’t so busy being delighted.

O̷̪h̵̬,̸̱̌ ̴̙y̷̟̋o̶̮ư̴̦’̵̻̔r̷͈͛è̸̳ ̴̣͌ỉ̵̭r̶̜͆r̴̳͠i̴̬̊t̴̟̔ḁ̵͊t̸͕̕ḯ̴͈n̷̻̈́g̴̠̋ ̴̬̊y̴̋ͅo̴̙͒u̴̹̒r̸͠ͅs̶̜̅e̸̼̕l̷͎͐f̷͔̎,̵͖͐ ̷̘̀a̶̦͗l̸͇̑l̸͙͆ ̵̡͂r̴̫i̸̛̦g̷͚̐h̷͈͝t̸͓̔.̴̰̃

He rose not long before dawn, tidied away his journal--what a pity he’d made so many inkblots! He really did need to learn not to write himself to sleep. At least there wasn’t ink on his face this time--and performed his own ablutions, and was dressed and tidy in good time to answer the door for his own breakfast tray.

“Good morning, sir,” said Jenny when he opened the door a mere moment after the first knock, a little surprised to see him up and dressed and almost painfully _functional_ at just past dawn.

“Good morning, Jenny,” he said, taking the tray. “Fine morning. I do love this time of year.”

“The air is certainly crisp this morning, sir. I’ll be sure to open the window to air the room out a bit.” Jenny agreed, “Anything to be taken down for the laundry?”

“Yes, just a moment.” He set down the tray on the desk and went to find the bag while she opened the drapes. “Do you know if--” _Miss Noble is alright_ “--Nurse Redfern will be in the infirmary soon? I’m meant to report to her this morning.”

“I think she might be laid up in her rooms helping Miz Noble, at least until the breakfast rush is handled,” Jenny mused, unlatching the window and opening it to let a crisp breeze flow into the room. “I’ll be taking over up there for her after that, so she can man the infirmary, just after attending to the other morning duties.”

“How _is_ Miss Noble?” he asked, very glad that the topic of the source of his affections had been broached without _his_ having to do so.

(It _almost_ hid the pining.)

_ A̴l̸m̴o̷s̷t̷. _

“Oh, much better than last night, sir, last I heard. Able to get up out of bed for brief periods. Susan mentioned overhearing her moving about when cleaning the hall lamps at the end of the night shift, and she knew it was Miz Noble, since she knows Matron’s footstep pattern.”

“I’m relieved to hear it--if perhaps mildly terrified at how much the staff knows from the littlest cues,” he laughed. Ah, there was the bag. “It was rather a shock to see her in such straits yesterday. She’s usually so--” _dazzling, dynamic, devastating--_ “formidable.”

“Even the strongest of us have our weak times,” Jenny allowed, “The stress of a new situation likely knocked her off her feet, I think.”

“I think you have the right of it. You’re very wise, Jenny.” There was something odd in that thought, something that tasted of memory--

\--but no, it was too good a day to chase mental rabbits down holes.

_ H̵o̴w̵ ̸d̴i̸d̵ ̷y̵o̴u̶ **d̵̢͚̻̉̾̽̍̈̈́ŏ̴̮̎̓̓̔̋͠** ̷t̸h̵a̷t̷?̶ _

“We’ll just have to do our best to look after her. Well, if she’s in any mood for visitors, at least.” He set the bag on the disarrayed bed and went to examine the tray. “Ah, you remembered the cat dishes! Thank you.”

“Any luck with her yet, sir?” Jenny asked politely, having straightened out the items on the mantel and moving her way about the room to finish her usual morning routine. She would finish with making the bed and gathering the laundry, most likely.

“She’s emptied the bowls every day now. At least, I hope it’s her every time--she’s been letting me see her eat recently, and even came in to eat off of the desk instead of the windowsill yesterday. I live in hope.” He set the bowls of liver and water aside and sat to butter his toast.

“Well, you let us under the stairs know if you manage to win her over, sir.” Jenny said, pulling the bedding neat and orderly and grabbing the bag with a cheerful smile. “I’ll be back for your tray, sir. Have a good morning.”

“You as well,” John wished, and poured the coffee.

He was lingering over his second cup and wondering if he had time to sketch the view out his window when he was suddenly distracted by a _plop,_ a _thud,_ and a _mrowp,_ as of--

\--as of a half-grown calico landing on the windowsill and promptly falling off it-- _inside_ , for a mercy--and then picking herself up and trying very hard to pretend she had definitely _meant_ to do that.

 _Yeowwwww._ The image was very gently ruined when she stretched, letting out a sound of wounded dignity.

“Good morning.” John hid a smile behind his cup. “Breakfast’s ready.”

 _Yum._ She was purring, glancing up at him, before daintily padding over to the desk and hopping up to nose at the bowls. _You are hard to find._

“I’m sure I don’t mean to be,” he murmured, forbearing to mention that his rooms were in the exact same position relative to her favourite tree as they’d always been, and that he’d been leaving the window open every day since he noticed her. “But I’m glad to see you. Were you looking for me long?”

_ E̴x̷c̸u̵s̴e̵ ̸m̴e̴.̵ _

_**W̵͓̉ḧ̵͉a̷͎̽t̵͚͠.̸̩**._

_I found small Not-of-Forest and strange smelling kindboy first._ She lapped up a few tongues of water, before washing her whiskers as daintily as she could with paws that were too large for the rest of her. _Before the moon. I slept, and then found Kind Fire and Yellow Ocean this sunrise._

‘Not-of-Forest’--? That must be Latimer, the last few days told them that, and therefore the other must be Narayan-Singh, who would of course smell different from the other boys because of his soaps. ‘Kind Fire’--well, what better description could there be of Donna than that? And so Nurse Redfern must be ‘Yellow,’ for her hair, but, “Why is she Ocean? And was the Kind Fire in much pain?”

_**W̷̯͘ḥ̴͐y̸̟͐** c̶a̴n̴ ̵y̴o̸u̴ ̷t̶a̸l̸k̵ ̷t̸o̴ ̶c̷a̷t̴s̵.̵ _

_**̸̎ͅW̸̬͋ḩ̴̇y̴̱͗** i̴s̶ ̷t̸h̸i̵s̵ ̸n̴o̸t̸ ̸u̶n̶u̶s̵u̶a̵l̶ ̸t̴o̸ ̵y̷o̸u̵.̴ _

_̸ I̵ ̷w̷a̸s̵n̷’̵t̴ ̶ **̵̛̠t̵͙͂h̴̪̍a̸̰͂t̸̨** s̷l̸o̵p̴p̶y̵,̵ ̶w̷a̷s̴ ̵I̸?̶_

_She’s big and makes soft noises but I don’t get close._ Her Ladyship announced, apparently in explanation for why Nurse Redfern was akin to an ocean. She sniffed at the chicken liver, pausing to look up at him one more time, _And Kind Fire smelled like Hurt, but was still kind to me._

“I suppose that’s a sound enough explanation,” John mused. “And that’s the Kind Fire for you. She’s always kind, unless you’re so stupid you need burning to mind your manners. But of course _you_ were the height of politeness, hm?”

_ G̵u̷e̴s̵s̸i̶n̶g̶ ̸i̸n̴ ̶b̵r̵o̵a̵d̸ ̸s̶w̶a̸t̵h̵e̶s̵,̸ ̸y̴e̴s̸,̷ ̴h̸u̵m̸a̶n̵-̶o̵r̶d̸i̴n̶a̸r̵y̵.̴ _

_̷ D̷i̶s̸c̴u̴s̷s̷i̶n̷g̵ ̵m̵e̸t̸a̶p̵h̴o̴r̸,̵ **n̶̹͒o̴̬͐.**_

_̵ W̵e̶r̶e̶ ̶t̵h̶e̷ ̵w̴a̵t̴c̵h̵ ̸e̷d̵i̷t̶s̸ ̵n̶o̷t̸ ̵e̵n̶o̴u̸g̸h̷?̸_

She purred again, louder this time, and dipped her head down to start devouring the chicken liver in lieu of answering. Her tail was flicking from side to side in obvious delight.

Excellent. Peaceful eating _and_ an entire conversation! He wasn’t really going to get a better opportunity to persuade her.

“You know,” John said to his coffee, “You could always just stay here and have food like this all the time. I could use a good hunter to keep the mice away from the books.”

She paused, licking her chops and looking up at him for a moment, tail slowing into more of a considering wave. _Not-of-Forest said that._

He had, had he? “Well, Latimer’s a clever boy. You’d be in the warm, and wouldn’t be bothered by birds. Or the weather. No need to go out at all, there’s some clean sand. And if you happen to like your ears scratched, I’m told I’m fairly clever at it.”

 _And the Kind Fire will scritch me every day!_ She was purring again, _Yes, Not-of-Forest said that too._

“I’ll have to thank him for putting in a good word. If you decide to stay, that is. The dogs never get in, either.”

_ U̶g̴h̷,̷ ̸n̴o̴ ̸o̸f̴ ̷c̸o̸u̶r̷s̸e̶ ̶n̵o̴t̴,̴ ̶t̵h̴a̸t̴ ̸w̸o̷u̷l̷d̷ ̶b̵e̸ ̷t̷o̷o̵ ̸r̷e̶m̷o̶t̴e̶…̴ _

_̵ A̶n̷d̴ ̸i̸t̷’̷s̵ ̸n̷o̸t̷ ̵a̴s̸ ̶i̸f̸ ̷I̴ ̶c̷a̸n̷ ̴t̷e̴l̴l̵ ̷D̶o̷n̷n̴a̶ ̶y̴o̸u̵ ̵n̸e̶e̶d̶ ̶t̵o̸ ̸t̸o̴u̷c̶h̸ ̴t̸h̵e̵ ̸w̸a̷t̴c̵h̶ ̴a̴n̸d̴ ̷g̵e̵t̷ ̸a̴ ̵r̴e̶f̸o̶r̶m̶a̴t̶t̶i̶n̸g̵.̸_

He offered her his curled fingers to sniff. “So. What do you say?”

After a few seconds, she daintily stepped forward over the bowls and bumped her nose and the side of her head into his knuckles. _It will be considered._

“Fair enough.” He caressed her ears. “I should be going in any case. Have a good day.”

_Don’t get eaten!_

It took a moment to parse that as a cat well-wish, but--well, it made sense, didn’t it? Very small apex predators had their own predators to worry about.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised with a chuckle. “Maybe I’ll bring you a treat from town.” He had her sandbox, of course, but a few toys might do. And perhaps something for Miss Noble, while he was at it?

\--

_It should be illegal for a day this nice to happen when people can feel this terrible._

She had slept for much longer than she really should have. It was a blessing, time to be unaware of her lower gut trying to tie itself into knots, but it didn’t help any of the stiffness or ache of her muscles. She’d managed to heave herself out of bed sometime before sunrise, into the bathroom to take care of things, but moving still _hurt_.

Outside, there were birds merrily chirping away. The sun was shining down liquid gold on the grounds of the school. And she wanted to submerge herself in boiling water.

Joan had shuffled downstairs about half an hour before, to her duties as Matron of the school, with the promise that she would be back later to check on Donna’s state. Donna had made sure to keep a basin from the washroom on the dresser next to her bed. Just in case.

She didn’t want to think about the mess waiting to happen that was Rocastle down in the office on his own for a day. Or Phillips digging through her organization system to ‘drop off’ completed paperwork. She didn’t want to think about the snide comments from Robertson about _feminine fragility,_ or Denman’s politer but no less pitying returns of _less robust constitutions_. She didn’t want to even grace the thought of Moffat’s slimy sneer, _a minor bout of hysterics_ , with the imagining of shooting it from range with a machine gun.

Or her Pen.

...Actually, imagining reworking the atoms of his face with her Pen _was_ an acceptable thought. Maybe she could set it on fire...

She was pulled from such pleasant thoughts by a knock on the door, knuckles rapping a few times rapidly before a growing-familiar voice called through the wood. “Miss Noble? I’ve brought you some breakfast, ma’m.”

She bit down on a groan, uncurling from around the pillow she was strangling in bed, and lifted her head enough to look blankly toward the door. _Jenny_ , her mind supplied, after a moment wading through the muscle ache and the nausea and the exhaustion. _That’s Jenny. She’s a housemaid. She’s nice, and you really need to stop associating her with **that** Jenny._

_...and she doesn’t have a key to the door._

Another groan. “Just a mo’.” she managed, rolling herself out of bed and shuffling over to the door. “You didn’t have to…”

As soon as the door was open, Jenny bustled past her with a fully loaded breakfast tray. There was oatmeal, and a bowl of strawberries -- possibly from the last batch of the season -- and a steaming mug of clear liquid that looked like tea, and something to the side wrapped in something… knitted… that Donna wasn’t certain of. There was even a smaller plate of plain eggs, and a little rack of toast.

“Don’t you worry, ma’m.” Jenny said as she put the tray down on Donna’s desk. “T’weren’t any trouble at all. Now, the cooks were mighty nice to you this morning, they put together a fair little spread that ought not to upset anything, and Susan saved me the work of fixing up a hot water bottle for you. Even brought you some lovely tea with a bit of mint and honey in it, for a poorly stomach.”

Donna’s shoulders sagged. Her late-twentieth, early-twenty-first century instincts were at war with the knowledge that in this time, a housemaid’s pride was in doing exceptional work. And Jenny clearly took _pride_ in her work. She was even holding the chair out for Donna to sit in, and looked like she was willing to argue her point if Donna tried to gently refuse… and so Donna sat, and let Jenny fuss over her, unloading the tray just-so, and gently offering the hot water bottle in its knitted cozy (which, now that Donna could see clearly, had a little mouse bobble added onto the end of it). She obligingly curled around it with a sigh of relief as the warmth seeped into her muscles, easing some of the ache.

“You’re a blessing, Jenny.” she murmured.

“Not half so much as you, ma’m.” Jenny demurred, “Now you eat while I get the room tidied, and then Matron mentioned you saying something yesterday about having some of your work brought up here? I can run and nab some of that for you if you’d like, just tell me what to grab.”

Donna couldn’t help but smile, turning to her breakfast as instructed and letting the quiet sound of Jenny bustling about the room gathering up errant books and putting them back in place, making up the beds and fluffing the pillows, and drawing back the curtains to the balcony door soothe her nervous sense of discomfort.

Jenny ducked into the ensuite bathroom to straighten up in there while Donna nibbled on a corner of toast, testing to see if her stomach was up for anything being ingested or not. Jenny’s cheerful humming accompanied the first few scoops of eggs, and a brief adventurous bite of a strawberry.

It was on the first sip of tea that the humming trailed off, and Donna paused.

The silence stretched. She couldn’t even hear Jenny moving about much anymore. And she knew that Jenny hadn’t _left_ , the door out of the room was clear on the other side from the bathroom…

“I… Ma’m?”

Donna tried to tell the unease in her stomach to piss off. Jenny wasn’t in danger, there was nothing _dangerous_ in the bathroom, no matter her instincts yelling _incoming_ at her. And if she was in danger then she wouldn’t sound _questioning_ , at that, she’d be _scared._

“What is it?” she asked, twisting carefully at the hips to look over her shoulder towards the door to the bathroom.

And her stomach twisted, but not from her monthly. Jenny was standing there, with a baffled expression on her face, holding two things in her hands. The ziploc of tampons that Donna had left on the sink after going to the bathroom this morning, and the tampax box that she had taken them out of the night before.

And… Joan had had a similar unrecognizing expression, once, too.

_Oh._

_Monopoly._

_Shite._

They… weren’t invented yet. Or at least weren’t common yet. Not enough to be recognized.

 _Tampons were,_ her mind supplied, _girls’ve been using tampons for thousands of years by now. Or equivalents. And Tampax is the oldest brand in ex… is… tence._

_Oh. But it might… not be old **enough**._

And even if it was, _Ziploc_ definitely wasn’t.

“Are these… yours?”

She put her cup down, as delicately as she could, and tried not to notice the dull roar in the back of her mind as impending panic loomed, kept at bay only by one very clear, very damning thought:

 _I messed up_.

She swallowed at the lump in her throat, eyes flicking from the items in Jenny’s hands to Jenny’s face, and felt herself nodding.

“Right fancy these are.” Jenny chuckled, more than a little baffled and delighted. “Sorry for prying, just… never seen a wee bag like this, or this brand.”

_Play it cool, you can still save this. **Lie.**_

“I brought them with me from the future.” she heard herself say.

 _... **brilliant**_. _Excellent execution._

_WHY did you SAY THAT--_

Jenny laughed, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. I’ll put these away, you don’t have to poke fun, Miss, if you don’t want to tell me then you don’t have to!”

She turned and slipped back into the bathroom before Donna could get another sound out, and Donna felt that washing wave of panic crest over her, felt--

_knew--_

That was it. She could move on. Dodge a bullet.

She could be careful for the rest of the time she had to stay here. Hide her things, accept the wake-up call not to get _comfortable_. This wasn’t a vacation, they were _undercover_.

She could spend the next however many months _looking endlessly_ over her shoulder at everyone here. Wary of everyone, even the maids cleaning their rooms.

Wary in a way that she’d already failed to be with Joan.

Or.

She didn’t... have to tell Jenny _everything_ , after all. No need to tell her more than the truth about being from another time and undercover, really. Just… someone else to trust, another set of eyes to look out for her, and in turn for the Doctor.

And Joan _did_ say that she should _try_ , with Jenny.

She could… _try_. To trust.

The panic washed over her all at once, and dissipated just as quickly, leaving only a cold feeling of uncertain purpose, as Jenny came back out of the bathroom again.

“Jenny,” she said, taking a deep breath. “...if you can get away with telling _no one else_ , can I trust you with a secret?”

\--

Three lectures and luncheon later and the day was not nearly so pleasant.

It would have been--well, not _nice_ of course, but _understandable_ \--if the unpleasantness had been a matter of some misfortune, or even a disruption of class by unruly students. Ill luck happened, unruly students could be disciplined or distracted and order restored.

But how in _blazes_ did one discipline one’s own _memory?_

The whispers and nudges of each new class were bad enough, but every object and every moment conjured up some new detail.

Setting foot on the stair in the morning recalled the weight of her in his arms, the challenge of balance and counterweight. The sun streaming in the windows recalled the gold and scarlet on her hair in the late afternoon, how badly he’d wanted to bury his nose in it.

His teacher’s gown still carried her _scent._

Nothing had ever felt so right as looking after her, as being trusted by her, and she’d been so plush against his arms and his body, so warm, such a perfect weight against him and he’d never wanted to let go--

\--and he was _doing it again,_ damn him, why couldn’t his mind _behave?_

His arms felt empty without her.

 _STOP IT,_ he told himself firmly _._

_ D̵’̶y̴o̷u̷ ̴k̸n̵o̸w̸ ̶w̶h̶y̴ ̴t̵e̴l̵l̷i̶n̵g̴ ̷y̴o̸u̵r̶s̵e̵l̵f̴ ̴t̷o̵ ̴s̶t̵o̴p̵ ̴t̴h̸i̵n̷k̸i̸n̴g̶ ̷a̶b̵o̵u̴t̶ ̴s̴o̸m̷e̴t̵h̷i̴n̶g̷ ̸n̷e̶v̴e̶r̷ ̵w̷o̸r̸k̵s̶?̶ _

_“Don’t think of a giant pink elephant.”_

_̸ W̶h̵a̶t̴’̷s̴ ̵t̴h̶e̴ **̶f̸i̸r̴s̸t̵** t̶h̷i̵n̷g̶ ̶y̴o̶u̷ ̸t̸h̸i̷n̴k̵ ̸o̷f̸?̸_

Not that that would work, of course. As well tell himself not to think of a giant pink elephant.

But really, bad enough to be love-lorn (even if things were proceeding along vaguely hopeful lines) without his body doing-- _things!_ Without permission! What was he, twelve?

_ O̶h̵,̵ ̷t̷w̵i̶c̶e̸ ̶t̴h̸a̵t̴-̷-̴i̷f̶ ̴y̷o̷u̴ ̴c̴o̷u̴n̸t̷ ̵i̵n̶ ̴d̶a̸y̵s̸.̷.̷.̶ _

He had an _example_ to set and only the merest _beginnings_ of a courtship in progress, and none of that would be helped by giving in to _hormones._

A distraction, that was what he needed. Something more active.

_ S̵o̶ ̷w̷h̵a̶t̴’̷s̷ ̷a̶l̷l̵ ̴t̷h̵i̶s̸ ̶s̶t̶r̶i̶d̸i̸n̶g̷ ̶a̵b̸o̷u̶t̵ ̴l̸e̵c̷t̷u̷r̵i̵n̶g̷ ̸i̷f̸ ̷i̴t̶’̶s̷ ̸n̶o̵t̵ ̷a̵c̵t̸i̸v̶e̴?̷ ̶ _

_̷ S̵i̷t̵t̷i̶n̸g̴ ̴i̵n̵ ̶o̵n̵e̸ ̸p̵l̷a̷c̶e̷ ̶a̷n̵d̴ ̵m̴o̶u̶l̸d̴e̶r̵i̸n̵g̸?̸ ̴_

\--And could he perhaps _not_ witter on in his head while he had _class to teach!_

John resolutely turned his mind to the topic and to his students, and in this way somehow managed to not think about Donna Noble for an entire two hours.

A new record. Perhaps he’d become a real person yet.

_ M̵m̴m̸…̸ ̸n̵o̷.̴ _

_̷ T̵h̷a̷t̴’̷s̵ ̴n̸o̴t̸ ̷g̴o̴i̴n̶g̷ ̸t̸o̸ ̸a̸c̴t̶u̴a̶l̸l̸y̸ ̷h̵a̸p̴p̷e̸n̴.̴_

But be he real or fake, a brisk walk was just the thing; a bit of exercise in the cool air could only help, and he had errands down in town anyway. If he hurried, he might even be able to bring Miss Noble something for her tea.

_ I̷’̷l̴l̷ ̸e̷v̷e̸n̴ ̷g̸i̷v̴e̶ ̴y̸o̵u̷ ̸a̶ ̴l̶i̷t̸t̸l̴e̶ ̶b̶i̶t̴ ̸o̸f̸ ̶h̷e̸l̷p̵ ̶w̸i̵t̷h̶ ̵t̶h̸a̷t̶.̴ _

_ C̶h̸o̶c̶o̷l̸a̸t̸e̶.̶ ̷ _

_ S̸o̴,̴ ̶s̵o̵,̵ ̴s̶o̶ ̸m̵u̶c̸h̸ ̶c̴h̸o̶c̶o̶l̴a̷t̴e̷.̸ _

\--

John returned to his rooms a good fifteen minutes before tea, refreshed and triumphant, laden with parcels. He’d found things for Her Ladyship, as promised (he thought she’d quite like the toy mouse, and perhaps the ball of feathers on a string would salve the sting of remembered wounds), a few odds and ends for himself, and most important of all, a beautifully wrapped box of the town’s finest chocolates.

How odd everyone had been acting, though! The townsfolk were as amused and whispery as the boys, and darting him the oddest little smiles, particularly in the sweetshop.

Oh, well. Rumor did spread, and his bit of chivalry had likely been told and retold far and wide three times by the time he reached his bed--and that _after_ he’d held Donna’s hand all service.

And as to _that:_ _Honi soit qui mal y pense!_

_ ‘̶S̸h̸a̷m̴e̷ ̴t̸o̴ ̸h̸i̶m̵ ̷w̵h̷o̷ ̵e̴v̸i̷l̵ ̸t̵h̶i̵n̵k̴s̶’̵?̴ ̴ _

_I̴ ̶w̴a̴s̴n̴’̷t̶ ̶g̴r̴a̷n̴t̷e̵d̴ ̵t̸h̶e̷ ̵O̷r̷d̵e̸r̶ ̴o̴f̷ ̶t̵h̷e̴ ̵ **Garter,** _

_ b̵u̴t̵ ̷I̶ ̶w̸i̷l̵l̸ ̸a̷t̸ ̶l̵e̵a̴s̶t̴ ̸g̴r̵a̶n̶t̴ ̶y̴o̶u̵ ̵t̸h̷e̶ ̷c̴o̸u̶r̸a̸g̷e̸ ̵o̵f̶ ̵y̸o̴u̴r̶ ̷c̵o̶n̵v̵i̶c̶t̷i̶o̷n̵s̸.̸ _

John was in love, and anyone who’d somehow missed it just wasn’t paying attention.

_ Y̵o̵u̶’̸r̵e̶ ̵n̴o̷t̴ ̶s̷u̴b̵t̸l̸e̷,̴ ̸n̵o̶.̴ _

_ I̶ ̵s̸o̸m̵e̵h̴o̴w̶ ̸t̶h̶i̷n̶k̶ ̵t̴h̵e̸r̷e̸ ̷i̷s̷n̵’̵t̸ ̸a̶n̷y̶o̷n̸e̴ ̶h̴e̶r̵e̶ ̷w̶h̴o̷’̷s̶ ̸m̸a̸n̸a̴g̶e̵d̵ ̸t̶o̵ ̵f̵a̸i̵l̵ ̸t̷o̸ ̸n̶o̵t̴i̸c̵e̷. _

With that cheering thought in mind, John abandoned the rest of his parcels on his desk and took the stairs three at a time to Miss Noble’s door.

He’d just paused to straighten his necktie when his attention was caught by voices through the slightly cracked door.

“...well, I really can’t fault you for being so careful about that sort of thing, miss,” ah, that would be Jenny. Strange that she was up here so late in the day, usually she made the rounds at breakfast. “But if nothing else I can spare you a kinder thought as a distraction from all that, if it’ll help.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. John tried and failed not to shuffle and lean in closer, curious despite himself. “Young Susan,” she started again, “was tidying Mr. Smith’s rooms this Friday afternoon past, and _she_ said she saw him burst into the room, and that he _flung_ himself on the bed, and _squealed_ into his pillow. Like a love-struck schoolgirl, she said!”

John could _feel_ his ears burning.

Well.

Eavesdroppers couldn’t complain about what they heard, could they?

Even inadvertent ones.

_ H̸o̵w̷ ̶q̷u̷i̵e̴t̸ ̸ **was** ̴t̶h̵e̷ ̷g̶i̸r̴l̴?̵ ̴I̷ ̸d̶i̶d̵n̵’̶t̶ ̷n̶o̶t̶i̴c̸e̶ ̸h̵e̷r̶ ̷e̴i̶t̴h̵e̵r̸!̴ _

But… it was almost worth it, hearing Donna snort loudly and let out a slightly startled belly laugh. There was the immediate sound of a hand clapping over a face, and Donna attempting to muffle her giggles, but that was the _real_ Donna, to be hoarded like a dragon’s treasure. That sound would live forever in his brain right alongside all of the other carefully catalogued details.

He let the embarrassed grin spread across his face and knocked, raising his voice to be heard through the door. “Am I interrupting?”

“Speak of the devil.” Donna mused, loud enough for him to hear, “Come in. Dropping eaves again, John?”

“Not on purpose, I assure you!” John promised, obeying. His bare Christian name, _again!_ Was he doing so well as that? His face was so hot he must look as if he’d been boiled. “I simply have the bad luck to hear you saying fascinating things before I remember to tell you I’ve arrived, and am promptly distracted.”

He got all the way to her bedside before his brain ground to a halt.

Oh, dear _Heaven,_ she’d thrown her dressing gown over her shoulders and it was puddled around her over the covers and was that _lace_ at her throat and stop looking stop looking _stop looking damn you._ Safe topic, safe topic--oh, lap desk, don’t look at that either, but it’s something else to talk about--

He glued his gaze to her face and was certain he must be glowing. “Working even from your sickbed, Miss Noble?”

“The other option was leaving it to the mercy of Rocastle for a day,” she said, wiggling her odd silvery black pen between her fingers at him. “And it helps the time pass. To be honest, I didn’t expect you to be taking tea with me today, being that I’m ‘on my sickbed’. I thought I would be quite _bored_.”

“Perish the thought,” John managed, kicking his brain awake. “I won’t stay if you’d rather I didn’t, but I happened to be running errands today and I thought some sweets might cheer you up.” He offered the parcel with a bow and promptly regretted it. _Don’t look don’t look don’t look--_

He could just see her bare feet peeking out beneath her sides, barely uncovered by the fall of her dressing gown. Her toes had sparkly emerald paint of some sort on the toe nails.

Donna took the parcel from his hands as his mind shut down again, thankfully preventing him from making a fool of himself ( _love surely hath managed to make me such a fool_ ) by dropping it.

He forced his eyes back up to her face, the better to see the glimmer of recognition, and then delight, as she opened the beautifully wrapped box. “Chocolates? You’re too kind.”

“Not possible,” he said firmly. “Not to you.”

_ O̸h̷.̵ ̸O̷h̵,̵ ̴w̸o̵n̸d̷e̶r̴f̸u̴l̴,̷ ̴w̷e̴’̶r̶e̷ ̸r̴i̴g̵h̸t̴ ̴b̴a̶c̴k̴ ̸t̴o̶ ̵t̵h̶i̴s̶ ̷a̴g̵a̵i̷n̶.̵ _

_ H̸a̴p̷p̸y̷ ̴m̶e̵d̷i̷u̷m̵s̴,̶ ̶i̵d̸i̴o̷t̸ ̴b̷o̸y̶!̵ _

There was a ringing silence. Donna had gone still, eyes wide-- _staring up at him,_ _cheeks pink, like she couldn’t **stop** looking_.

Another image that would be seared into his memory and hoarded.

Jenny coughed discreetly. “Tea for two, miss? Sir?”

Oh no, oh dear, he really _had_ said far too much, and in front of Jenny, too. He could only hope she was more discreet than Susan. “I, er, I shouldn’t like to trouble you, Miss Noble, not if you’d rather be resting?”

She blinked owlishly, before shaking her head, the pink spreading to cover most of her face. “Oh--er-- I-- probably for the best, really!” she blustered, “Perhaps you could take tea with Joan, instead?”

“Oh, yes, good idea, I’ll make certain she _does_ have something on your behalf, shall I?” he offered hastily. Yes, better to be gone before he did something _really_ stupid, though just what it might be he couldn’t quite imagine.

_ Y̶o̵u̵’̵r̴e̶ ̴r̵u̸n̷n̵i̶n̷g̷ ̸o̸u̴t̶ ̵o̸f̷ ̵p̴o̵s̶s̵i̸b̸i̸l̶i̴t̸i̵e̷s̵.̵ _

_ A̷s̸i̸d̴e̷ ̵f̷r̸o̵m̶,̷ ̶s̴a̷y̶,̵ ̴p̸r̵o̸p̷o̴s̴a̸l̸s̵.̵ _

_̶ …̸_

_ T̷H̶A̸T̵ ̵I̷S̴ ̷N̸O̶T̷ ̷A̵ ̵S̷U̸G̴G̷E̵S̴T̵I̷O̵N̸.̵ _

John did his best to hide a wince. And perhaps he’d ask her for something for a headache, while he was at it. “My best wishes for your speedy recovery,” he added, and took her hand, bending to kiss it--

\--and possessed by some imp of the perverse, or perhaps the giggling figure of Eros--

(or in truth, the sheer daring will of Love which cares nothing for self-destruction)

\--he twisted her hand gently in his, and brushed a kiss over the inside of her wrist.

Her pulse fluttered madly under his lips.

One more sense-treasure for his collection.

“Until later,” he breathed over her skin.

As he beat a hasty retreat, he stored the final shiver he had felt as it passed through her with all the rest of the lovely sense-memories, and told himself he would be ashamed of his ungentlemanly daring later.

For now, he revelled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colored nail varnish actually didn’t appear until the 1920s, but please imagine Donna giving Joan and herself mani-pedis in the TARDIS. “Who’s gonna see our feet?” asked Donna, and then...
> 
> 1\. Oh, you’re irritating yourself, all right.
> 
> 2\. Almost.
> 
> 3\. How did you *do* that?
> 
> 4\. Excuse me.  
> *What.*
> 
> 5\. *Why* can you talk to cats.  
> *Why* is this not unusual to you.  
> I wasn’t *that* sloppy, was I?
> 
> 6\. Guessing in broad swathes, yes, human-ordinary.  
> Discussing metaphor, *no.*  
> Were the watch edits not enough?
> 
> 7\. Ugh, no of course not, that would be too remote…  
> And it’s not as if I can tell Donna you need to touch the watch and get a reformatting.
> 
> 8\. D’you know why telling yourself to stop thinking about something never works?  
> “Don’t think of a giant pink elephant.”  
> What’s the *first* thing you think of?
> 
> 9\. Oh, twice that--if you count in days...
> 
> 10\. So what’s all this striding about lecturing if it’s not active?  
> Sitting in one place and mouldering?
> 
> 11\. Mmm… no.  
> That’s not going to actually happen.
> 
> 12\. I’ll even give you a little bit of help with that.  
> Chocolate.  
> So, so, so much chocolate.
> 
> 13\. ‘Shame to him who evil thinks’?  
> I wasn’t granted the Order of the *Garter,*  
> but I will at least grant you the courage of your convictions.
> 
> 14\. You’re not subtle, no.  
> I somehow think there isn’t anyone here who’s managed to fail to notice.
> 
> 15\. How quiet *was* the girl? I didn’t notice her either!
> 
> 16\. Oh. Oh, wonderful, we’re right back to this again.  
> Happy mediums, idiot boy!
> 
> 17\. You’re running out of possibilities.  
> Aside from, say, proposals.  
> …  
> THAT IS NOT A SUGGESTION.


	19. conclude, she is in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conclude, she is in love.  
> Nay, but I know who loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Lukas Bloody Moffat. But don't worry TOO much. >:3c

To her credit, Donna managed to force herself to remain focused on her work until the latest pile of paperwork that Jenny had brought up was neat, complete, and marked off as such. She had kept her job at H. C. Clements despite not knowing a thing about the industry, and despite losing her head metaphorically over Lance; she could keep her focus on work that she _knew_ how to do if necessary.

Once she had placed the last sheet onto the ‘done’ pile, though… she put down her Pen, and scrubbed her hands across her face, and swung herself out of bed and into slippers, full of a restless energy that she’d been forcefully ignoring since John left.

She tied off her dressing gown around her waist with perhaps a bit more vigor than necessary before walking to the door to the balcony. She needed fresh air, and a chance to think, and the sun was easing down toward the horizon and she knew the school would be bustling down to dinner soon--

Which… really said something about how comfortable she had gotten here, didn’t it? That she could trust roughly when in the informal schedule they were without having to look at the clock?

Joan should still be an hour or so to come upstairs again, so she could hopefully work through some of her insanity before the school matron came back and aggressively _cared_ about her. She held a hand over the wrist that John had caught, and as if summoned up by the mere thought of what had happened, her pulse kicked up into a rabbit’s race under her fingertips.

His lips had been (familiarly) faintly chapped, and (unfamiliarly) very _warm._

She furiously shook her head, and ducked outside, the better for the chill air to reach her flushed cheeks. She really needed to stop thinking about it.

“He’s! Off! Limits!” She told the empty air, trying to convince herself. “And he’s Spaceman, anyway, why do I want--”

_No._

_No, I don’t **want** to pursue him like that._

_I just… don’t want to **stop** him, either._

She pushed her face into her hands, groaning. The railing was chill under her elbows when she leaned out over it, scrubbing tension from her forehead. She was glad that she’d remembered her slippers, else Joan chastise her ears off.

“It’s not like it’s going to last, anyway,” she tried instead, her shoulders sagging in disappointment at the truth of that fact. She might not know how long they were going to be here, but that didn’t change the fact that it was temporary.

And when it ended, when her Spaceman came back and John Smith went away again, then she’d be right back where she began with them -- their best mate, nothing less.

Nothing more.

“Why do you do that?”

The voice came, quite unexpected, from her right. Donna turned her head towards it without thinking, startled, and bit down a curse of alarm when she saw who -- or rather, _what_ \-- had spoken.

It wasn’t a full-fledged sidhe. She could relax at least a little bit in the fact that she wasn’t so self-absorbed as to have missed a human-sized Neighbor sitting on the railing beside her. It was only about the size of her doll, as tall as her hand from palm to fingertip, though it was much more delicate than the doll was. Its skin was a woody brown color, with a few scattered blooms of something soft and feathery in bright fiery red at the edges of its jaw and forehead, blending into far more feathery copper… hair, for lack of a better term. Its wings were as thin as gossamer, like spiderwebs spun into dragonfly wings, and faintly glowing with an inner moonlight.

It was perched with its legs dangling off of the railing, peering up at her with a needle-toothed grin on its face. As soon as it knew it had her attention, the tiny legs started swinging in the air and it started swaying back and forth, as if to music that only it could hear.

“I--” Donna clamped her mouth shut, blinking down at it. It tilted its head, just barely too-far, like it had learned the gesture from watching others but didn’t understand the physical limits of it. It was uncanny how much the gesture almost comforted her, considering she’d seen the Doctor do the same multiple times; just a little too far, grin just a little too wide, movements just a little too manic until they were just a little too still. A cunning imitation, but not quite right.

“Why do you convince yourself of falsehoods, Donna Noble,” it asked, “as if doing so will make them true?” Its eyes were big and entirely reddish gold, like autumn leaves about to fall, with no irises or pupils. Nevertheless, she couldn’t doubt the intensity of its regard.

“What falsehood?” Donna asked, before thinking. _Wait, is it asking me why I’m lying to myself?_

_I’m not lying to myself!_

_...Am I?_

“That you are nothing more than a companion to the rogue menace,” the sprite said evenly. “That your heart is hardened against them and will never be anything else.”

Donna bit her lip, instinctively looking away, and just as instinctively forcing herself to look back— one ignored one’s Neighbors, even to discomfort, at one’s own peril.

“It’s less about whether I’m lying to myself as much as it is… giving myself a kinder truth to believe in.” She tried to explain. “Even _if_ I’m completely honest, even _if_ I felt… like that… for Spaceman… it wouldn’t do anything in the long run, other than making me _theoretically_ want something I couldn’t have. So it’s better off to convince myself of the lie, for both of us. We can both be happy with what we have, without me having to wreck it with so-called wanting anything more.”

“But you _do_ want more.” The Neighbor mused, continuing to kick its tiny feet in the evening air as the sun crept closer to the horizon, bathing them both in red and gold. “Telling yourself falsely that you don’t will do nothing to change _that._ ”

“Er--” Donna swallowed down the first three responses that she wanted to say (“how would you know,” “bugger off,” and “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” respectively). Instead, she considered the little Neighbor with her best professional temp stare.

“It won’t change that, no,” she allowed. “But it makes it easier to pretend it isn’t there. If I can’t do anything about my wants, then it doesn’t help me to be longing and wishing for them. And in this particular case, with… these particular wants… that I may or may not have! Just. In this case, I wouldn’t be able to do anything about them. Spaceman doesn’t want me to be anything more than a good friend. So… I’ll keep any wishes for anything more that might or might not crop up to myself, and be the best friend they’ve ever had.”

“Even if you never intend to tell that menace of your wants,” the Neighbor frowned, “that still doesn’t explain why you will not tell yourself truthfully that you _want_ those things.”

Despite herself, Donna turned away again. She looked to the setting sun, and sighed, and let herself feel the ache in her chest. “Because if I tell myself truthfully then it hurts me.” She said softly, less to the tiny Neighbor and more to the rapidly chilling air. “And as any living thing, I don’t fancy things that hurt.”

“Does not a wound hurt to tend?” The Neighbor asked derisively, “If you do nothing of it then the wound will simply remain, and fester. Are you so certain that nothing can be done of it? That the menace feels the way you say?”

“If I wasn’t, then I wouldn’t be putting myself through this.” Donna did her best not to snap, but it was a close thing.

“I was not aware that humans could perceive the thoughts of others so clearly.”

“We—” she bit down on her frustration with a vengeance. “We can’t. But they’ve told me aloud that they don’t want anything romantic between us.” Not in so many words, exactly, but the sentiment was entirely clear. Just wanted _a_ mate. A friend to travel with. Someone to share the experiences with. Not someone mooning over them— not a romantic partner.

They didn’t want _that_.

“And you do.”

The words were said simply. Not an argument, not a contradiction. Just a statement of absolute truth. The Neighbors didn’t truck with anything but truth. They shifted the conditions of their truth in their own favor, or didn’t mention parts of truth that went against them, but they never _lied_.

“And I can’t do anything about it.” Donna sighed. If she had to tell the truth, at least she could do the same as they did, and try to twist it in favor of her argument.

“Hm.” The Neighbor pushed up off of the railing, its wings displacing the air as it fluttered around into Donna’s line of sight again, arms crossed (just a little too tightly, a little too inhuman). “Well, if your reasoning is that you can’t have what you want because the menace doesn’t want it in return, then what reason do you have to refrain in the face of him actively pursuing it?”

Which… Ow.

“This version of him isn’t them.” Donna replied, as steadily as she could.

“Then why does the menace have a say in which wants you pursue with regards to him?”

“Because he’s not—” she realized belatedly that she was gripping the watch under her chemise again. It ached even more to acknowledge. “He’s not them, but when they come back, he’ll be gone.”

“But he is here now. And they have no say in your wants while gone.” It fluttered a bit closer to her face, needle teeth bared, “Are you denying that?”

“No, I’m not… denying that.” She tightened her grip.

“You dislike him, then? Because he is not the rogue?”

“No, I,” she felt like she was arguing with a mirror. “I don’t dislike him for not being them.” _It just hurts._ “It isn’t fair of me to dislike him for not being them. I think he’s sweet, as himself. And I think I could... Be happy. With him.”

If he were only him. If he weren’t temporary.

If he were real.

And that hurt most.

“Then you prefer him to the rogue?”

“I don’t _prefer_ either of them— they’re—” _cut from the same cloth._ “They’re both important in my heart.”

“Then pursue the one of importance that you can pursue, if you cannot pursue the other. You say they are both as important as the other to you. You have wants regarding both of them. If you cannot humor the wants with regard to one, and you cannot argue the same with regards to the other, as they are not the same by your reckoning, your argument fails to explain why you cannot want things from the second.”

“Because he’s _temporary!_ ” Donna finally snapped.

“So are _you_.” the Neighbor shot back without hesitation, no louder than before, not even seeming frustrated. “So are all things beyond the ken of the Gentry. Every moment that you or your ken let slip past is never coming back. I do not understand your argument.”

Which…

Well.

When put that way, Donna _did_ feel rather…

Silly. In perspective.

Of course the Gentry didn’t have a concept for something being more temporary than anything else. In their eyes, everything else was temporary. In their eyes, everything was to be _wanted,_ _because_ it was temporary.

She lifted her hands in an offer, and the little autumn sprite settled onto her palms without a word, peering up at her again, no less intent than when they had started this conversation. Donna peered back, with her own sort of solemnity. “Put like that, I suppose my argument doesn’t stand up very well against yours.” she allowed.

“Then what shall you do?” it asked, bright copper eyes burning into her. She had to remind herself that the Gentry could be helpful about as often as they could be dangerous, and try to believe that this little one was trying, in this instance, to be _helpful_.

Still, one never agreed to anything they offered outright.

“I’ll have to think for a while on a better argument,” Donna said back.

The needle teeth spread into an amused smile. “And if there is none?”

“Then there is no better argument,” she offered her own faint, tentative smile. “And I will have an extremely well articulated argument for why I’m being silly and should in fact act on my wants.”

“Then we have come to an understanding!” the little Neighbor crowed, in something akin to victory. It leaned forward toward her face, daring and challenging and… almost fond. “You will see that I have argued well, and will act for your own happiness, and a small percentage of our debt to you will be worked towards. The Winter Queen will be pleased with my accomplishment.”

“I make no promises.” Donna couldn’t help but smile. “But your concern for my happiness is noted. Now, I’d suggest you leave here before anyone else has the chance to see you. Everyone else here is on edge due to another recent visit of your ken. I don’t want anything escalating.”

It fluttered up from her hands again, bobbing in a bow in midair, before fluttering forward and pressing its tiny hands to either side of her nose. “If you seek me, then you should call for Of The Fallen Leaves. I am the biting chill on the air as summer ends. I take those things which cannot stay in the sunlight, and lead them to the Autumn Court, where they _must_ wither and fade. You may call upon the emissaries of the Autumn Court if ever you are in need, Donna Noble. My debt to you is yours to make use of, separate from the debt of the Gentry as a whole, for your hospitality to me here.”

Donna gave a weak smile and leaned gently into the touch, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 _Won’t use it, probably,_ she thought, much more privately, _but I’ll keep it in mind._

With one more needle-toothed smile, it nodded and fluttered away again, disappearing off into the golden-red light of the sunset, and likely into Elsewhere at the same time.

Heaving a sigh as the tension in her system finally eased, she turned around again--

Only to see Joan, gaping at her from inside their room. She grimaced, and opened the door to the balcony.

“I can explain…!”

-

Joan slipped into the seat at the end of the table, and was gratified to see that Donna’s usual seat had been filled instead by Mr. Smith. Mr. Challpner had also shifted down a seat, occupying the one that Smith usually did. As far as dinner conversation went, she much preferred Smith and potentially Challpner to Moffat, given that Donna wasn’t currently an option.

“[--went to see the lady, and she seemed as well--Ah, but here’s Asclepius’ handmaiden!]” Smith turned from his conversation with Challpner to smile at her, and Challpner offered her a nod over his shoulder.

“Nurse Redfern, good evening,” Smith greeted her eagerly. There was something different about his vowels and intonation than what it had just been--oh. The TARDIS was being helpful again. She wondered which set of sentences had been the translation… seeing as he was speaking to her directly, now, she had to think it was the former sentence, speaking with Challpner. They _did_ converse in Latin at mealtimes, as she recalled. “How is Miss Noble doing this evening? She seemed to be recovering a little when I brought her a get-well gift this afternoon.”

Joan thought back to the brief but informative visit she’d made only a few moments previously. The sight of Donna with a tiny spriteling resting its forehead against hers, being gently shooed off into the cool air of the evening with a faint glow, was an image that would stay with her forever even if she _didn’t_ get to follow where Donna got to tread.

“She’s doing much better.” She said, shaking the image from her mind’s eye to focus on the conversation at hand. “Up and walking, when I went up. She was making ample use of the balcony. But, pardon me, ‘Asclepius’ handmaiden’?”

Smith blushed, to Challpner’s visible amusement. “Er, ‘nurse’ is slightly difficult in that language. I do apologize--if we’d known you spoke Latin we would have included you.”

 _Well, that would have been rather a difficulty prior to last week,_ Joan thought blandly, lifting a hand to wave the thought away. “No matter. She had mentioned your visit, actually.”

The younger gentleman blushed a little more. Challpner snickered. “She, er, she did?”

“Yes, it certainly left quite an impression.”

Smith now looked faintly alarmed. “...a positive one, I hope?”

Joan’s lips curled into a faint, amused smile, remembering Donna’s distant, wistful look while she explained both what had happened with Smith and why she had been chatting up a little Neighbor. “You have at the very least earned her consideration.”

He lit up; it was really the only way to describe the winsome smile that broke over his face. Really, if he aimed _that_ look at Donna any too often it might win her all by itself. “Progress indeed.”

“I wouldn’t _harbor_ too many _hopes_ , Smith.” And there was Lukas Moffat, leaning around Challpner’s chair to clout Smith in the shoulder. “You can’t expect to have it all your own way. The fair lady Beatrice has been as prickly towards any intended courtship as she ever could be in writ. She’s proven her capability in mocking _all_ of her potential wooers out of suit thus far.”

“Particularly the _married_ ones,” Challpner said pointedly. Moffat flushed.

“In _any_ case,” Joan said, unfurling her napkin across her lap. “She _is_ stubborn, so while I harbor hopes, I grant you no promises.”

“Hope is quite enough for me,” said Smith, quiet but sincere. “I began at a disadvantage, and everything worthy takes time.”

“Well, there are worse disadvantages,” Challpner mused, pointedly cheerful. “Such as making oneself odious.”

Moffat sniffed and turned pointedly to Rocastle on his other side.

George promptly stood to make the suppertime announcements.

Joan hid a smile.

The announcements were blessedly normal, and the serving platters promptly handed round; Moffat, mercifully, found an audience for his educational pontification in George and Phillips, and peace reigned for a time.

“Did you happen to have a feline visitor this morning?” Smith wondered between the soup and the fish.

“As a matter of fact,” Joan said, nodding. “Sometime a bit before dawn.”

“So she had mentioned. I hope she brought a bit of comfort.”

To her credit and as a measure of how much her little world had changed in the past two weeks alone, Joan didn’t outwardly react to the implication of the _cat_ having mentioned anything. Surely she’d either misunderstood him, or this was something she wasn’t meant to bring attention to. (Challpner’s frown implied the latter.)

“I think she might have. Miss Noble certainly seemed cheered by her presence. Is the cat truly named ‘Her Ladyship’, or was she merely being as facetious as she sounded?”

Smith chuckled, which was nearly as dangerous as the smile. “I’m afraid she is. ‘Her Ladyship the Annoying Meowgnificence,’ to be exact. A little joke with Miss Noble that took on a life of its own.”

“I’m sure the joke is how little she deserves the implied nobility.”

“As you say,” Smith said fondly. “She’s a very sweet cat, but a candle shone at one ear would be visible through the other one.”

“As I gathered by her entrance. She managed to scatter all of Miss Noble’s books off of her desk on entry through the window and woke _both_ of us.”

He winced. “That’s progress for her, worse yet, as long as she made the window on the first jump. I’ll do my best to keep her indoors once she’s won over.”

Joan lowered her voice so that his ears would be the only ones to hear it. “Then I wish you as much luck with her as you seem to be having with Donna.”

He blushed adorably. “From your mouth to God’s ear,” he replied, just as softly.

“The Lord has little influence over her, as I’m sure you’ve gathered.”

“No more than on cats,” he chuckled. “But we lesser creatures need all the help we can get.”

Joan smiled, turning back to her food. Challpner eventually prompted the continuation of his Latin conversation with Smith, and she did her best to acclimate to understanding what they were saying.

“[In any case, your condition has rapidly improved with these happenings,]” Challpner pointed out between bites. “[If you continue in this manner then I don’t see how you can fail. It may in truth take as little time as I initially expected for your courtship.]”

Smith scoffed. “[You’ll give me false hopes.]”

“[I’m giving you realistic expectations.]”

“[If I’m too eager I’ll trip up and undo all my work,]” Smith fretted. “[Assumptions are fatal with her. I’ve no wish to seem as uncouth as… _some others_.]”

Joan quickly brought her napkin up to stifle a particularly unladylike snort. She was spending too much time with Donna, clearly, to have lost grip on her manners so dearly.

“That is certainly one way to put it,” she mused softly.

Smith’s lips quirked. Joan was struck by the similarities of that smile to the person she had seen in the video, and wondered just how different they really were. Donna seemed convinced that they were completely different, but… Joan couldn’t be sure, yet.

“[I’ll continue as I have been, alert to her reactions and doing my best to put her first,]” he went on, and took a thoughtful bite. “[...strictly out of curiosity, how little time _did_ you expect? You never actually mentioned an estimate.]”

“[I had and still harbor expectations of you accomplishing it by Saturnalia.]”

Smith turned pink again. “[Mid-December? That’s barely two and a half months from now!]”

“[Meaning you’ll have to post banns in November,]” Challpner teased. “[So don’t dawdle _too_ much.]”

“[Stop giving the boy false hopes, Challpner,]” Moffat snorted.

Challpner’s expression went bitter-calm, and he finally turned to his other shoulder to fix Moffat with a stare. “[I don’t recall doing such a thing, _Lukas_.]”

Moffat scowled, a hint of puce coloring his cheeks. “[Now see here--]”

“Gentlemen,” George said firmly. “You are at the table.”

Moffat paled and went silent. Joan couldn’t quite see Challpner’s expression from where she sat, but he nodded faintly. “Sir,” he acknowledged. It wasn’t an explicit agreement to stand down, but it was enough to sate George for the moment.

“Sir,” echoed Moffat, sullenly.

George eyed them both for a moment, nodded, and pointedly returned his attention to his plate.

Challpner followed suit. Moffat tried not to sulk visibly and failed.

Smith turned to give Joan a look of amused bafflement. “Really,” he murmured, “I’m only two years younger.”

The remaining duration of dinner was almost calm, with the four of them aware of the standing warning. Joan finished her plate with well-earned aplomb, followed a moment later by Challpner, and then by Smith a breath or so after that.

“For the record.” Joan added softly as she folded her napkin atop her empty plate, “I don’t think Mister Challpner’s estimate is quite the exaggeration you might think, Mister Smith.”

His look of incredulous delight warmed her.

Though really, if he _always_ grinned like that, it would be easy to mistake him for one of the students. The grin was much more boyish charm than it was anything else.

“Something to think about,” she smiled back.

“November.” Challpner nodded solemnly. “Mark my words.”

“Then don’t complain when I mark you down as a witness,” Smith mock-threatened.

“You’ll still need one other. I presume Matron already plans on being one.”

“The Marys already have intent.” Joan replied dryly.

The dismayed look Smith gave her was rather flattering, if perhaps somewhat puppyish. “But you’re her best friend! Surely she’d be disappointed if it wasn’t you?”

“She would have to ask me, herself,” she chuckled, “Otherwise I stand little chance against the force of nature that is Mary Hodges hoping for a bite of gossip.”

“Then it’s fortunate that she likely will,” Challpner put in.

“And all of this is counting chickens before they hatch,” Smith reminded them firmly. “I’ll bid you both good night, and you may roast me in effigy at your leisure.” He made Joan a bow, gave Challpner a nod, and duly beat his retreat.

Challpner was quiet a moment, before turning and nodding to Joan. “Matron.”

She inclined her head back.

“You know her best. How many chickens have already hatched?”

“They’re all already laying more eggs.” She responded, just as dryly.


End file.
